Clockwork Mexico
by vanillafluffy
Summary: El Mariachi joins forces with Sands and an American mercenary to stop another deadly cartel. Silence of the Lambs meets Once Upon a Time in Mexico. Kate Martin rides again!
1. Going South

I threatened to do this a long time ago, and here it is: a crossover between **_The Silence of the Lambs_** and **_Once Upon a Time in Mexico_**. If you haven't seen the latter, I should warn you, this contains MAJOR spoilers. (Also contains violence, bloodshed, bad language, and sex. What did you expect from a hybrid like this?)

RC, former colleague of Agent Sands and CEO of Millennium Consulting, first appeared in "Darkness Bound", which chronicles the events immediately following OUaTiM and details the raid on a drug-processing facility. Later, RC reappeared as Kate Martin's boss in "If You Give a Grizzly Bear a Bear" and "Twilight Reflections".

Why Kate Martin? Because I'm one of those people who likes to speculate what happened next, and it seemed to me that for a pivotal charecter, hers was the least developed personality in the whole film. I started thinking about how she might've changed as a result of her experiences, and things got interesting.

Dates and technology: Consider this slightly AU from the original, set a few years in the future, so you can suspend disbelief about any gadgets that might not exist in the here and now. Nothing too wild, but I don't **_think_** fiber optics is quite ready to give us Personal Self-Contained Sonar, for instance.

My plan was to post a chapter a day during the month of February. It worked pretty well.

And if any of you think I own anything but the electrons I'm composing it with, you can send your donations to my PayPal account.

Enjoy.

* * *

Prologue...Going South 

I'm up a lot earlier than usual for a Saturday morning; there was a tasty estate sale out in the wilds of Terhune County and after plundering that at the crack of dawn, I'm performing a navigation experiment in the Chrysler. A navigation experiment: you know, where you've got a map and onboard GPS, so you can make a left turn instead of a right, just to see where it takes you. I have a good idea whereabouts I am, to within a couple of miles-not too far from the airfield where RC's friend Lee keeps his Cessna. I'm either on County Road 12, or Hen Run Road. There's a crossroads up ahead, and I'm dropping the velocity of the 300 as my phone rings.

"Talk to me!" I sing out, hitting the speaker button.

"Trouble in Mexico," says my boss tersely. "How soon can you make it out to Lee's?"

I peer up at the sign, grin and hang a right, peeling out. "What's up?"

"I had a call for help from Lucifer. I've got a meet with the guy from Berne at two. I can't just drop that, but I don't think it can wait eight hours until I'm free."

The 300 is doing 65 down the rutted dirt road and shimmying like an exotic dancer. "Did he say what was going on?"

"Something about being followed. We were cut off."

"That doesn't sound good," I say, dropping into neutral and putting the car into a slide that spins me off the road and onto the trail to the airfield. Popping it back into fifth, I vroom into the parking lot and skid to a stop.

"So, how soon can you be-?"

"I'm there." I cut the engine and pop the trunk. "Keep me posted if you hear anything." It's a good thing I keep a bag packed in the trunk at all times. Hopefully, my estate sale booty will be okay until I get back. I'd hate to try to find another set of longhorns...these are going to be the perfect Christmas present for somebody special.

"Let's get this show on the road!" I holler as I enter the office. Lee grabs a stack of maps and charts off the desk and glares at me as he locks the building behind us.

Lee and I do not get along too well. He's in his mid-fifties, favors loud tropical print shirts-and I once threatened to shoot him four hours into a nine-hour flight if he attempted to put in another Jimmy Buffett CD. A quick trip to Margaritaville, fine. The complete works, consecutively? Uh, no. This might not have worked, except that I have a pilot's license (Expired, but I know how to fly, okay?) and he knows I could and would be capable of popping a cap in him and landing the plane afterward. We compromised with some Skynard-yes, I'm aware of the irony, thanks-and he's been wary of me ever since.

This time I've got my iPod along, so I can quietly contemplate my rescue mission, if that's what this is, without having to deal with flyboy's agitation.

The guy with the code name Lucifer worked with RC at the CIA a long time ago. I don't know all the details-they had a major falling out, and then Lucifer got in touch a few months ago, needing help to put the whammy on some drug lords. I came into it after the fact, running courier with some hard- and software.


	2. The Mime

**Chapter One**

**The Mime**

It was just after the new year. I'd had a nice, long spell of R&R since just before Thanksgiving-got in some skiing and managed not to rack myself up in the process-always a plus. I was looking forward to getting back to work. I had a project I'd been working on-portable, self-contained sonar that was pretty juicy from a technical aspect, and I wanted to refine it some more.

Millennium's HQ is out in an area that's still pretty countrified-it's surrounded by farms and pastures with horses-and I know to an ace how fast I can go. I've got the turn into the parking lot down to an artform-I know exactly when to twist the wheel coming out of my skid to slide into my favorite parking space beside my boss's latest car-god forbid anybody else ever parks there, we'll both be in a world of shit-and I nail it perfectly. You'd think RC would go for a status vehicle like a Hummer or at least a Range Rover, but no. A new silver grey luxury sedan appears every December. Quiet, tasteful nondescript cars...my champagne gold Chrysler seems positively decadent next to the decorous four-door.

As I stride into the workroom, I find my boss on the phone, saying something is a crazy idea, but okay, if you want to try it!

The section of shelves where I know I left the sonar is empty. I frown and glance around the workroom. I don't see it anywhere. Impossible that we've had a break-in and nobody's told me. "Kate," says my employer, hanging up the phone, "I need you to do an upgrade on that sonar unit of yours."

"Okay. Where is it?"

"Mexico."

What the fuck? I want to ask, but don't. I raise an eyebrow, trying to play it cool. "Mexico? How did that happen?"

"That-" (holding up the phone) "-was a former associate of mine. He's operating south of the border and field-testing the gear. I took it down there a couple weeks ago. Seems to be working a treat. He's got a few ideas to tweak it."

"Uh-huh. What kind of ideas?"

"Sensors built into gloves, maybe a something along the lines of a metal detector on a different frequency. For that matter, if you could fine-tune the original unit, that would be good, too."

My mouth is hanging open. I have to remind myself of a number of things: Like, I love my job-the technical parts as well as the contracts. Like, at least my pet project is getting tested, not being shelved or sold outright. Like the fact that I'm doing R&D for the company, so the company owns the product. And let's face it, I'm never really going to be able to anticipate what'll happen next around here, so there's no point in getting snarked.

"Are you okay with that?"

"I'm a little floored," I answer honestly. (RC has a nose for bullshit.) "I didn't think it was ready yet."

"You did a good job with it." Red-letter day: I get compliments like that every second or third blue moon. "Personally, I think it's a crazy idea on his part - that's a lot of input to have to process along with the rest of it, but he thinks he can deal with it all. By the way, I've got something for you. Merry Christmas."

It's a keychain with a stone donut wrapped in leather cord and accented with ornate silver beads. There are already several keys on it. If it's a souvenir of Mexico, at least it's not a cheap one. "Thanks," I say, surprised. We've never exchanged gifts before. "So, who is this guy?" I want to know, as I start assembling what I think I'll need. I doubt they have Radio Shack down there, so I'm packing everything imaginable.

There's a prolonged silence. I'm starting to think I won't get an answer. "Lucifer."

"Excuse me?" I drop a roll of solder.

"A man with the face of an angel and the soul of the devil himself. Don't trust him, Kate. I don't. I'll work with him, but I'll watch my back every step of the way."

"Why?"

"Let me tell you a story. We were working together, this was back when I was with the Company, you understand. Must be close to fifteen years ago...anyway, we were in Paris. We'd just finished putting away some people who were fencing SCUDs that fell off the back of a truck...nice, quiet evening, walking back to our hotel after a good dinner...no stress, no worries. A street performer came up to us and started doing his act. Lucifer pulls out his gun, shoots the man dead, and says to me without even cracking a smile, 'A mime isn't such a terrible thing to waste.' And keeps going without a backward glance."

"You made that up," I say, chuckling. It sounds like a bad shaggy dog story, but RC's expression says otherwise.

"It's absolutely true, Kate. Lucifer can be charming when it suits him, but don't for one minute forget that he's an amoral sociopath who can kill without a shred of remorse."


	3. Enter Lucifer

2. Enter Lucifer

Twenty-four hours later, I'm sitting in a hole-in-the-wall cantina in Culiacan, Mexico, waiting to meet with the notorious Lucifer. I'm more than a little curious. My employer rarely talks about those years with the CIA, so the prospect of meeting a real, live agent-or ex-agent, I've gathered, who might fill in a few puzzle pieces - is tantalizing.

Although I don't have any description to go on aside from "the face of an angel", I don't have any trouble spotting Lucifer when he strolls in the door. He's wearing the PSCS in broad daylight. They're built to look like sunglasses - the frames are by Oakley - and aren't opaque. Well, that's one way to identify himself. He's dressed like a Hollywood movie cowboy, all in black, and he walks with a slow swagger. The face of an angel? It's hard to tell with the reflective silver shades covering so much of it. He threads his way nimbly through the crowded restaurant to my table. "Room for one more?" he asks smoothly. His lips are pursed in an expression that comes off as smug.

"Sure. Have a seat."

"You work for...?" Up close, I get a look at some good bone structure. Slim build. I'd peg him around my age, late thirties, with an American accent.

"Millennium Consulting," I answer quietly. He settles gingerly into the chair opposite me. Something about his attitude - wary, watchful-makes me edgy. There's a gun under his vest - he's not even trying to be subtle about it - and I know that RC was right about this guy. He'd put a bullet into me between one heartbeat and the next if he thought it needed to be done.

A waitress appears, asks if he wants the usual, and he nods curtly. The big silver curve that covers his eyes is still trained in my direction. "What's your name"

"Kate." I answer to that as readily as I do Catherine these days. It started as a "Taming of the Shrew" joke, but it could be Hepburn, too, and I like it.

"So, you're the one who put together the gear." He touches an earpiece lightly. "Nice work. Did RC tell you what I want?"

"Matching gloves."

"Yeah, basically. We'll go back to my place after lunch and you can hook me up." He accepts a plateful of something violently red on a bed of yellow rice and digs in. Lucifer may have a gun, but I remind myself that I've held my own with guys a lot bigger than him when it comes to hand-to-hand fighting. He's an inch or two taller than I am, but he's slender bordering on skinny. I probably outweigh him by ten or fifteen pounds, tits not included.

I'm not sure what I expected of his place - maybe a swinging batchelor pad; he strikes me as a ladykiller in more ways than one. Instead, it's a plain jane cinderblock house, one story, walled by courtyards front and back, a regular fortress. Practically empty, there's nothing homelike about it; everything is strictly functional. The few pieces of furniture are arranged with geometric precision. It must be a furnished rental, I think, because I can't imagine this...gunfighter...picking out that pink and blue floral sofa.

The blinds are drawn. It's dim, almost womblike in here, but he gestures to the table in the dining room. "Okay, trot it on out, sugar butt. Time's a wasting."

Ah, hell, I don't really care if he's packing - he's starting to get on my nerves. "First of all, sport, it's not a case of trotting something out. I haven't built them yet. Second, I'm going to have to configure them with the primary unit, and I'm sorry, but that's gonna take a little while. And third, it's a fucking cave in here." I yank on the cord for the blinds and he goes rigid. For a minute, I think he's gonna reach for his gun - I'm already tensing to take him down - but he stops. Looks pissed.

"How long is it going to take?" he asks tightly.

"It takes as long as it takes, Lucifer."

"No. I'll put up with that shit from RC, but not from you. The name is Sands. Use it."


	4. The Fallen Angel

3. The Fallen Angel

Some of the preliminary work on the gloves has already been done, but I'm not sure how well they'll work in practice. The sensing film isn't made to flex, which rules out using it on the palms. I can see how it would help scan out to the sides if one were walking. The technical aspects of the project are interesting enough that I'm not really thinking about the application. I mean, what's the point of all this?

Bad Kate, overlooking the obvious. Maybe that's a sign that I've been submerged in corporate espionage and contract killing for too long. I've stopped asking "why?" and started saying "why not?".

A couple hours into it, I get to the point where I need to check the frequency of the primary unit. Sands has been sitting diagonally across the table from me, quiet. He's not making small talk, which I appreciate, although I'm almost itching from his scrutiny.

"I'll need to see those," I say finally, and pluck the primary unit away from him.

His hand comes up, just a fraction too late to stop me, and I freeze, the glasses in my hand, staring at him. "Jesus Christ."

"Had nothing to do with it, sweetcheeks." His tone is sardonic.

Sands has no eyes. He's not merely blind; his eye sockets are empty, giving him an eerie, skull-like appearence. He tucks a strand of hair back behind an ear, cocks his head, waiting, dark hollows rimmed with scar tissue macabre in his lean face.

Then a little memory with my mother's soprano attached says "Catherine, it's rude to stare at people." Not that he can tell I'm staring, but...Jesus.

"I take it that wasn't covered in your briefing?" he asks at last, sounding almost amused.

I shake my head, realize that's not going to cut it. "No. That was definitely not covered in my briefing."

He smirks. It still feels like he's watching me, as impossible as I now know that to be. He's listening, though: I can almost see his ears pricking as I pick up and set down tools on the table between us. The echoing silence is unnerving. "It's creeping you out, isn't it?" Sands sounds pleased.

"Yeah, just a little. What the hell happened?"

"I saw too much." There's a twisted smile on his lips. "Somebody wanted to make sure it didn't happen again. Will you stop that? Get back to work."

The sight of his ruined face makes me a little sick. He'd be a regular pretty boy, if not for those terrible gaping holes punctuating the bridge of his nose. I keep fumbling with things, trying not to look, trying not to think. What kind of person does something like that to another human being?

The same kind of person who'd skin a woman to make a girl suit, answers a different voice, one that's haunted me for years, the voice my worst nightmares sound like.

Perversely, that steadies me. I continue to modify the frequency settings. We've both been to hell and back. His torment is just more visible than mine, no pun intended. The face of an angel? Definitely a fallen angel, this Lucifer...

While I'm assembling the gloves one at a time, Sands begins telling me his story. He's articulate, intelligent; it's easy to listen to him as I work. He spins a wild tale of conspiracy, corruption and deceit. The charecters are larger than life: a politician who's too good to live, a guitar-playing patriot who cares only for revenge, theblack-hearted bitch who sold Sands out and laughed as his eyes bled down his face. A young boy saved his life, helped nurse him back to health, and now Sands has dedicated himself to keeping this patch of Mexico free of the cartels. He recounts a successful strike against them, made just a couple of weeks ago, with RC's help and my PSCS.

"That's the damnedest thing I've ever heard," I say when he's done. There was plenty of irony in his telling, but no self-pity. Sands is no weakling, whatever else he may be. RC described him as an amoral sociopath, but there are probably some people who'd say the same thing about me. "Here, try these on."

Sands is all business; once we've gotten the units synchronized, he wants to take it out for a trial run.

"It's getting late!" I protest.

"Oh, you mean it's getting dark out?" He chuckles. "I hadn't noticed. Come on, I'll walk you back to your hotel. You aren't staying here."

Hell, I'm not getting paid enough to spend a night under the same roof as this nutjob, even if it is strictly business, so I pack up my tools and follow him. It's not just getting dark; it's a little after midnight and there aren't a lot of street lights in this berg.

Sands melts into the darkness in his black outfit. Even allowing for the PSCS, it's impressive to watch him in action, knowing that he can't see where he's going. He's agile, moves like a dancer. There's a bit of a swagger to his walk, as I noticed before, and a slight limp. I noticed the swagger when he walked into the cantina some twelve hours ago. Walked in, and strolled over to me so smoothly that I didn't guess he was blind. How the hell did he do that? That's what's been nagging at me, I realize.

When we get to the hotel, I ask him how he did it. He grins. I'm glad he has the PSCS on just then, giving the illusion of normalcy to his face. "You mean you don't know? Guess it'll have to stay my little secret, then." He blows me an airy kiss as he turns to go. "Nice meeting you, Kate. Give my best to RC."


	5. The Crimson Halo

4. The Crimson Halo

Here I am, heading back to Mexico six months later, to see who or what is after Sands. We're about an hour away from landing at the coordinates RC gave us, when my phone rings again.

"I've heard from Lucifer again," announces my boss. "He wants me to recall you, but I think he needs backup whether he'll admit it or not."

"What's going on? Does he know who's following him?"

"He found out it's someone he knows, but there was an exchange of gunfire and he's on the move."

On the move? I can track him via the signature of the PSCS - a little refinement I never got around to mentioning to its wearer. "It sounds like he could use an assist," I say coolly.

"Maybe. His exact words were, 'I'm not going to have time to babysit your little techno twink'."

"Or I could just kill him myself!" I yelp, outraged. "That self-centered, clueless, egotistical shitweasel!" Oh, boy, do I go off; RC - who knew damn well I wasn't going to ignore an insult like that - is chortling in my ear, which only makes it worse. Lee gives me side-long glances out of the corner of his eye, probably debating whether he has a prayer of snagging a chute and bailing out on the crazy woman. "What are you looking at?" I snap at him. "Just fly the goddamn plane!"

Lee lands on a dirt road on the outskirts of town, and is back in the air as fast as he can haul the plane up. I'm on my own now. It's a short hike to the warehouse leased by Millennium during RC's jaunt here last year. I have copies of the keys, although my previous trip didn't bring me out to this place. There's a jeep, I've been told - but when I enter the bay of the warehouse, I find a second car as well: a long, low-slung Studebaker probably two decades older than I am. It's black with red quarter panels under a layer of dust - it looks like the Batmobile gone to seed.

Lead me not into temptation; I don't even have to hot-wire it. One of the keys I have fits the ignition. I try to talk sense to myself - the Jeep, which isn't quite old enough to vote, is probably the better vehicle - but the Studie calls to me. I listen to the muted thunder of its V-8. Jeeps are a dime a dozen compared to the Batmobile. When's the last time _you_ saw a Studebaker?

Techno twink? Fuck it, I'm taking the Studie. I don't know where it came from, but I'm gonna drive it like I stole it.

After spending an hour cross-crossing the streets of Culiacan, I'm ready to start exploring its alleyways and cul-de-sacs on foot. In one area, I got a burst of feedback from the locator I hastily contrapted in the warehouse's workroom. That strikes me as the best place to start. I'm not familiar with the town, but I've got my bearings to an extent, at least in relation to my other visit. This doesn't strike me as the greatest neighborhood. I wish I'd had time to install an alarm on the Batmobile. Yes, I've got a gun - another reason I don't fly commercial - and believe me, I have it out and ready to go as I make my way between two buildings.

Some pooch digging through a trashcan almost crosses the rainbow bridge right then. Okay, so I'm a little jumpy. I'm used to gacking people from a distance, or, if I have to get up close, I tend to favor poison. I've shot exactly one person during the course of my career - he tried to rape me before I could slip him a dose. I get out to the gun range a couple times a year; I'm reasonably competant but nobody's going to mistake me for Annie Oakley.

Up ahead is an open space, and the whine of the finder in my hands intensifies. There's a plaza or courtyard at the center of the block, inaccessible except on foot. The unit in my hands keens sharply, and I play hot and cold, ending up near one of the far walls.

No Sands, just the shiny graphite of the PSCS, discarded on the brick cobbles. My heart sinks. Then I see a boot, protruding toes up from behind the rim of a chipped, tiled fountain. I dread the thought of telling RC I got there too late.

Still no Sands. This guy looks like a native, and he has eyes. At least, I presume he does-unlike Sands, he has eyelids, too - which are closed at the moment. Dead? A modest pool of blood surrounds his head like a halo, and I can see a nasty-looking wound on the left side of his skull. There's no telling whether he's a cartel thug or an innocent bystander, but at the moment, he's the only lead to Sands's whereabouts that I have.

I turn off the finder and tuck it into my shoulder bag. Still covering the prone man, I lean over to check for a pulse.

Faster than thought, his hand grabs mine, and then I'm in the middle of a real-live Mexican standoff - he's pointing a gun at me, and he looks like he knows how to use it. Guess I don't need to check for a pulse, after all. He's a live one.


	6. Dangerous Assumptions

5. Dangerous Assumptions

He's glaring at me; I've got a feeling he's got a few more notches on his gun than I do. In Spanish, he asks me who I am.

Now, I comprehende Spanish perfectly well. I took it as my foreign language requirement in high school, and later, in college, and I've made it south of the border several times during the course of work and play. I've never had any trouble making myself understood. However, it occurs to me that not letting him know right away that I speak the language might work to my advantage later.

"In _English?_" I say with just a hint of self-righteous tourista.

"American," he states, disgusted, the gun not wavering an inch.

"That's right."

Slowly, both of us warily eyeing each other, he pulls himself into a sitting position. Despite the crust of dried and drying blood on the side of his face and in his longish hair, he looks dangerous, not weak. His brown eyes are glassy, but he doesn't give an inch. How the hell am I supposed to interrogate his guy for what he knows about Sands? If he wasn't armed, duck soup, I could put a hurtin' on him, as they say back home - but I've already figured out that if I shoot him, I'd better kill him fast with the first shot, or I'm in big trouble.

"Who are you?"

"I'm looking for the man these belong to." I dangle the PSCS in my left hand, and he nods.

"Sands."

"Right again. What happened?"

"You're his...back-up?" He's studying me like I'm an artwork he might want to buy. The landscape is blonde, female, still on the sunny side of middle age, wearing jeans, New Balance crosstrainers and a Dixie Chicks tee shirt. (Hey, it was a Saturday. When I got dressed this morning, I was trying to look like an innocent yard sale-er.)

"For a guy with a head injury, you're a freakin' genius."

He moves cautiously, the gun tracking on me 100-percent as he crouches, then rises to his feet. He's in western boots, I'm in sneakers, but I'm almost five-eight, and he's got two or three inches on me, even allowing for the difference in heels. He's a big guy - solidly built, with shoulders out to there. "What's your name?"

"Kate."

"Well, Kate, when you find Señor Sands, tell him the next time I see him, I'm going to shoot him like a cook." His accent is just strong enough that the last word comes out "kook", and my lips twitch. Sands mentioned shooting cooks - I thought that was pretty lame, myself - sooner or later, all you're going to have left is mediocre cooks - but the way Big Mex here says it, tickles me. "You find that amusing?"

"Mister," I say, smiling, "You're assuming that Sands is going to survive me finding him."

At that, he smiles back. Not at me; more likely at the thought of Sands going down. He looks less dangerous then, more human - he wavers a bit; leans against the wall - the gun in his fist shakes. He seems to be staying conscious purely by an act of will. "Too many cooks -" he starts to say.

The gun clatters from his hand; his brows are knotted and his eyes roll back in his head. He slides down the wall.

Quickly, I nudge his gun out of reach with a nimble foot. He's not playing possum this time: he's out cold. Once I'm sure I'm not going to be startled again, I snag the fallen gun and gingerly insert it into my shoulder bag, which promptly doubles in weight. As I tuck my own gun into the waistband of my jeans, preparing to wrestle Mex down the alley to the Batmobile, I congratulate myself for not having to blow away such a good-looking guy.

What?

Oh great...my libido's come a-calling.


	7. Casa del Sands

6. Casa del Sands

Did I mention that Señor Caliente, in addition to being taller than me, outweighs me by a good few pounds? I drag him out to the Batmobile, which I'm relieved to see, is still A) there, B) intact. I'm loading him into the back seat (and debating the merits of tying his hands in case he comes around), when a boy runs up to the car, exclaiming "Señor, what's wrong?"

What next?

He skids to a stop when he gets a look at my passenger. "That's not Señor Sands! That's his car - and those are his-" He's pointing at the PSCS and glaring at me. "What did you do with Señor Sands?"

"You're that kid who saved his life," I surmise, remembering the story Sands told me about the Day of the Dead and its aftermath. "Manuel, right?"

"Manolo!" He's indignant. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything to him, kid. I'm trying to find him. I found his glasses," -My command of Spanish is NOT up to explaining sonar to an eleven-year old "- and this guy in the plaza back there."

Manolo looks at the unconscious man and back at me. "What are we going to do?"

We? What we? Ain't no we here... It's twilight in Culiacan, and I've been up since before dawn in a time zone where it's now been dark for quite a while. I'm too tired to argue with the little fucker. "Climb in."

I may be tired, but I'm not about to show either one of these jokers where the warehouse is - and besides, Sands's place is closer. "You have any idea who this guy is?" I ask Manolo. This turns out to be a good question; the kid does know, and is only too happy to tell all.

So this is El Mariachi, the angst-ladden crusader of Sands's tale. Sands didn't mention his raw animal magnetism - from which I conclude that Sands is totally straight in that particular respect and doesn't have a clue. Well, if he and Sands are working together, hopefully when he regains consciousness at Casa del Sands it'll clue him in that I'm on their side. Hopefully.

Manolo has a key to the house, which saves me the bother of BE on the Batcave. We haul El Mariachi inside and dump him on the floral sofa. Not much has changed since I was here last, but I see a guitar case propped against the end of the sofa and make a note to check that out later. I ask the kid nicely to find us something to eat. Two reasons: one, it'll keep him busy, and two, I'm freaking starving.

Meanwhile, I prowl through the four-bedroom house, which is a little scary. Going down the hall from the main living area on the right, are: a bathroom, linen closet (empty), clothes closet (ditto), and at the front corner of the house, the master suite. Sands apparently does not regard lightbulbs as an essential on his shopping list. Only one bulb in the overhead fixture works, and it's about 20 watts. Sands's possessions are arranged in a rigid geometry that enables him to find things by touch.

Across the hall, the other three bedrooms are in a row, going back toward the common area. The room directly across from the master suite is - I can only call it an armory. The windows have been bricked over. Sands has a frightening amount of ordinance for a guy who can't see what he's shooting at. The middle bedroom is an impressively stocked infirmary - either that, or Sands plans to perform some serious interrogations. Interestingly, this room is the best-lit in the house, with screw-in fluorescent bulbs. The last bedroom has a reinforced door. The light doesn't come on when I flick the switch. At first, in the twilight that seeps in from the hall, I think it's a guest room, but your standard guest room doesn't have the window bricked in or bolts on the wall. No, this isn't hospitality - it's solitary confinement, Lucifer-style.

Going back to the infirmary, I grab supplies to try and patch up the mariachi. (Sands just called him "El", but the guy's gotta have a real name.) I rinse away as much of the blood as I can. It looks like he literally dodged a bullet - there's a crease slightly above his left temple. When I check his pupils, they're both the same size, which reassures me. He's going to have a helluva headache when he wakes up, but I don't think he's majorly concussed.

Manolo has heated up a can of soup while I busied myself with my patient. (I am not going to think about playing doctor with him, I'm not, I'm not...!) I thank the boy and start spooning it up, realizing I haven't had anything since an early morning bagel...seventeen hours ago, my watch informs me. No wonder my brain is stuck in neutral; my blood sugar is probably down around my ankles.

The kid's English is pretty good. He tells me the señor sent him by bus to the town of guitar makers to find El Mariachi. Bad things are happening in Culiacan, and Señor Sands thinks the big Mexican will help him with the troublemakers. By the sound of it, Manolo has a heavy case of hero-worship for Sands - he doesn't seem to string together more than two sentences without refering to "Señor". He wants to know what "we" are gonna do.

It takes some convincing to make him understand that I need to get some rest and figure out who's behind all this before I can do anything. We. Shit. What do I look like, his damn babysitter? This reminds me of the "techno twink" comment. How the hell did I wind up trying to save the ass of a man who called me a twink with only the help of a guitar player and some prepubescent Sands-wannabe?

"Come back in the morning and we'll make plans," I finally tell Manolo. "Not before eight! Ocho," I add for emphasis. If this little twerp shows up on my doorstep at six a.m., I'm going to waive my usual policy toward noncontracted civilians and pop him so I can go back to sleep.

Once he's disappeared, I try to get ahold of RC. No luck; I get an "out of service" message. Looks like I'm on my own. Next on my agenda: investigate that mysterious guitar case, which, when the latches are released, proves to hold...a shiny black guitar. Surprise, surprise. How mundane. Unless...

Wrapping my hand around its neck, I try to lift it out. It won't budge. I twist the knobs and pegs and nothing happens. I prod the hinges on the back of the case, examine the handle. I shake it; something rattles. Turn it upside down; nope, but it's officially the heaviest freaking guitar I've ever seen. I glare at it. I don't for a minute believe it's simply stuck in the case; exasperated, I bang my fist down on the shining wood, and a spring-latch clicks.

Bingo.


	8. What's in a Name?

7. What's in a Name?

There, beneath the curves of an electric guitar, is a cache of weaponry that, in the right hands, would make the St. Valentine's Day massacre look like a game of spin the bottle. You don't have shit like this if you don't know how to use it. I have no clue what any of it is in technical terms; my gun is a good-quality, off-the-shelf automatic with enough stopping power to slow someone down if I wing them or stop them outright if I get in a good shot. Ho-hum. I don't even remember what brand it is. This stuff looks deadly just lying there.

"How the hell did a nice girl like me wind up surrounded by all these damn pistoleros?" I mumble, staring at the Mariachi's stash.

"No nice girl knows a man like Sands," says a husky voice from the couch, startling me. I look into a pair of amber eyes that regard me speculatively.

Not making any sudden moves, I sit back and rest my hands on my knees, in plain sight. The open guitar case yawns between us like Death Valley. "Headache?"

"Sí."

"Want some aspirin? Acetominophen? Ibuprofen? Sands has a supply laid in."

"Sure. And some water. Please."

Maybe I'm making a fatal mistake, turning my back on him on the strength of his beautiful brown eyes. All I know about him is what Sands told me, and god knows how much of that was bullshit. But I get up and walk down the hall to the dispensary, where I find a bottle of OTC caplets with the seal on the bottle intact. I detour to the kitchen on the way back, and run tap water into a glass.

The mariachi is sitting up on the couch, hair hanging in his face when I return. As far as I can tell, it doesn't look like he took anything from his hoard. I offer him the glass, and unwrap the caplets in front of him, shaking two of them out of the bottle onto his palm. "Thank you, Carolina," he murmurs, and downs them with a sip of water.

"My name is Kate. Short for Catherine." Okay, so he doesn't remember my name. He's got a head injury, that's not surprising.

"Kate...of course."

"Sands told me about you," I inform him, sitting back down on the carpet. The couch is the only furniture in the room; when I said this place was empty, I wasn't kidding. "But he kept refering to you as 'El Mariachi'...what's your name?"

"That's as good a name as any," he shrugs. "Plenty of people call me 'El'." He rakes his chin-length hair back with his fingers. It's the color of mahogany and wavy.

'El' as in 'the', I remember Sands saying. "Sure, why not?" I say cheerfully. "It could be short for Elwood, that's a good name for a musician." He gives me a fish-eyed stare. "Or - I've got it! Elvis!"

"No!" he says loudly. "Absolutely not!"

I give him my most angelic look. "Elton?"

"No!" I don't know why I'm happily pushing the buttons of a guy who's loaded for bear, but this is the most non-lethal, non-automotive fun I've had in - oh my god, I'm flirting - so rusty at it we many both need tetnus shots, but yeah, Kate, admit it: flirting. He's trying to glare at me, but his lips twitch. I flutter my lashes at him, and he cracks up. In a minute, we're both shaking with laughter.

The ice is broken. "You want to call me something? Fine, call me 'George Washington'."

"Oh...kay. Although I suppose on this side of the border, that would be Jorge."

"George will do."

_I'm gonna hug him and squeeze him and call him George, _a Looney Tunes soundbite pipes up in my head, and I start laughing again. "Anything you say, George."


	9. Sunday Morning Comin' Down

8. Sunday Morning Comin' Down

It doesn't seem like I've been asleep for any length of time at all when I'm awakened by a terrific racket. My first groggy thought is that Manolo _has _shown up at six a.m., and I'm going to smoke his little butt - I grab the gun I took from Sands's armory and parked next to the bed in the infirmary - when I finish waking up and realize that the level of noise I hear is excessive even for an eleven-year old.

Someone is moving in the half-light outside the barred window in my room - the outline visible against the shade - and without a thought, I raise my pistol, sight, and drop them with one shot. The infirmary is the only room on this side of the house with an unblocked window - and it has a wrought-iron grille. Sliding my feet into my New B's and shrugging on my tee shirt, I grab my purse and the rest of my gear with my free hand and make for the hallway.

George - or whatever his name is - has one of his big, deadly guns in either hand and alternates shots between the front door and the patio doors at the back of the building.He catches sight of me, downgrades me as a threat, and squeezes off another shot at the back door.

Moving rapidly down the hallway, I peer into the kitchen and pop off a round at someone trying the door to the front courtyard. A glance in George's direction shows a man crawling toward him - Sands! The blind man finds the open guitar case, identifies its contents, and his face becomes a smiling death's head.

"I think that's all of them," says George, forestalling the former agent, who looks gleeful at the prospect of joining the firefight. "I counted five."

"There were seven of them," says Sands, listening. He must have ears like a bat; even without the PSCS, he's heard my sneakered approach and George knocks his arm away from the shot he's fixing to send in my direction.

"I got two," I announce, "one around back and one trying to get in through the kitchen."

"Oh, Christ, not _her_," Sands groans.

I level the gun I'm holding. Wouldn't it be ironic for him to die by his own gun from a bullet fired by his so-called ally? "Give me one good reason not to shoot you."

"You'd have to explain it to RC." There is that.

"Besides that."

"That's all the reason you need, sugar buns," smirks Sands.

Taking into account where George is standing in relation to Sands, I put a bullet less than a foot from Sands's right ear, pleased to see him jump. "In order to save the asshole, I had to shoot the asshole."

"Children, play nice," scolds George. He's reloading his weapon as he speaks. "I think we might want to get out of here for the time being. When whoever sent them here realizes they're out of contact, they'll come in greater numbers."

"I need to get some things," says Sands, already moving toward the hallway. I step aside, wary until he's out of sight.

"You might want to finish getting dressed." George is smiling. "We're not in that much of a hurry."

Blushing, I kick off my shoes, slither into my jeans, put the New B's back on and settle my bag over my shoulder, with a glance inside to make sure my original gun is still in place. It is, and so is the one I picked up in the plaza. I'd forgotten about that one. "I'm ready." He's watched the whole procedure with amusement, and I don't think he missed my pink cheeks.

Sands comes back with something that looks like an old-fashioned doctor's bag. He's still carrying the gun from George's case. Let's be clear here: I don't like him. That babysitting crack put him on my shit list but good. RC was right, as usual: I don't trust Sands one inch. Now, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say I feel sorry for him, but damn. Eyes drilled out? That's some cold shit. And snide cracks aside, he's coping a helluva lot better than most people would.

Which is why I fish around in my bag and pull out the primary unit. "Sands. Here."

"What?" He stands a few feet away. I've got the PSCS in my left hand, gun in my right. He's got a gun in his right hand, the bag in his left.

"Your glasses. I haven't had a chance to check them for damage, but -"

"Okay. So put 'em on for me, would you, sweetcheeks?" His stance is alert.

Clenching my teeth, I step forward, ready to take him with me if he decides to be the maggot my boss thinks he is. I place the frames on his narrow face, and tab on the power source. Sands sighs. I see him visibly relax. "Thanks," he says, not sounding overly sarcastic. "Thought they were gone. That would really cramp my style."

"Yeah, especially since you might actually have to be _polite_ to the person who builds them."

"Like I said, it would really cramp my style."

George clears his throat, and we head for the door.


	10. All Downhill From Here

9. All Downhill From Here

The sky is pink with dawning light, throwing the trees into silhouette like they were cut from black paper and pasted to a fanciful pastel background. Glancing at my watch, I discover it's not even 6 a.m. yet. I've had less than four hours of sleep, and right now, I'd waste half the population of Brazil for a pot of strong black coffee.

Sands being polite lasts all of thirty seconds, until he realizes he's getting into the Batmobile. "This is my car!" he exclaims. "RC was storing it for me, I didn't give anybody permission -"

"Sands, get in the car," interrupts George. I follow the direction he's looking in - the jacked-up blue 4x4 rolling down the street does not look friendly. There are two men in the cab, and a posse in the back, which has a crude frame of steel pipes sticking up from it. Of course - they can pack more people in there if they can stand, and that gives them something to hang onto.

"I'll drive, you shoot," I say to him, sliding into the driver's seat and cranking the engine. Sands is grumbling in the back seat. George is riding shotgun with a sawed-off, and I peel out of the driveway.

"Head south," Sands barks as we rocket through the sleeping town. "North of town is full of cartel sympatheizers."

Obligingly, I swing the big car onto the road heading south, the blue truck following behind us and gaining slowly. We're approaching a fork in the road, and I swerve to the left - the other choice looks like it's heading into hill country-and stomp a little harder on the gas. No GPS here -god help us all if I've taken the wrong turn. George is leaning out the window and there's a hellacious bang as he takes a shot at our pursuers. They start shooting at us, then - maybe they'd wanted Sands alive, for whatever reason - I make a note to ask him about that when we get a chance - then I swing wide around the next bend and clean forget everything else.

"Sands," I whoop"I hope you've got good brakes on this thing!"

"Why?" he asks at the same time George steals a glance at the sudden descent of the road ahead of us. It's all downhill from here.

"Jesú Christo!" the guitar-fighter exclaims, and I hear a litany of prayers as the truck wallows around the curve behind us and he gets off another shot. It's a two-lane road, barely paved, a steep downhill grade with twists and switchbacks - we're doing fifty, and for a minute, I take my foot off the gas and just steer while I get a feel for how the old car handles at speed. My adrenaline's through the roof, in a good way. Let George take care of those fools with guns - this is my element, and I'm loving it. The only thing spoiling it is a hole in the dash where the radio should be.

Driving was definitely a good idea. I'm wide-awake, happy, piloting the Batmobile down the trecherous road with a grin on my face, and because it seems so right, I start singing. "_Have you heard the story of the Hot Rod Race when Fords and Lincolns was settin' the pace? That story is true, I'm here to say - I was drivin' that Model A." _

The big black and red Studebaker handles like silk - well, allowing for the rotten road. Since I can drive darn near anything anywhere, I'm satisfied enough to goose it up to sixty - which doesn't take much, since it's been accelerating with downward momentum.

"_It's Lincoln motor and it's really souped up, that Model A body makes it look like a pup.  
It's got eight cylinders; uses them all, got overdrive, just won't stall.  
With a 4-barrel carb and a dual exhaust, with 4:11 gears you can really get lost.  
It's got safety tubes, but I ain't scared-the brakes are good, the tires fair."_

We slide going into a sharp curve - there's no shoulder and it's a long way down on both sides-this stretch runs along a spur of mountain. The back window of the Batmobile explodes. Sands drops below seat level - whether he's been hit or just decided it's safer that way, I don't know, but George leans over the back of the front seat and starts shooting out throughthe convenient new opening.

"_Pulled out of San Pedro late one night...the moon and the stars was shinin' bright.  
We was drivin' up Grapevine Hill passing cars like they were standing still.  
All of a sudden in a wink of an eye a Cadillac sedan passed us by.  
I said, 'Gals, that's a mark for me!' By then the taillight was all you could see_."

"Shut the fuck up, you crazy broad!" screams Sands. Well, obviously, if he was hit, it wasn't in the lungs. I'm pissing him off, and I'm in control. Life is good.

"_Now the gals all ribbed me for bein' behind, so I thought I'd make the Lincoln unwind.  
Took my foot off the gas and man alive, I shoved it on down into overdrive.  
Wound it up to a hundred-and-ten, my speedometer said that I hit top end.  
My foot was glued, like lead to the floor - that's all there is and there ain't no more.  
The gals all thought I'd lost my sense - them telephone poles looked like a picket fence.  
They said, 'Slow down! I see spots! The lines on the road just look like dots.'_

I yeehaw going into the next serpentine series of curves. We spin out going around a hairpin - do a complete 360, what a fucking rush! George is praying and shooting, Sands is - by the sound of it - wedged in behind the front and back seats, swearing - and I'm cheerfully belting out the next verse.

"_Took a corner; sideswiped a truck, crossed my fingers just for luck.  
My fenders was clickin' the guardrail posts. The chick beside me was white as a ghost.  
Smoke was comin' from out of the back when I started to gain on that Cadillac.  
Knew I could catch him, thought I could pass - don't you know by then we'd be low on gas?  
We had flames comin' from out of the side. Feel the tension. Man! What a ride!  
I said, 'Look out, ladies, I got a license to fly!' And that Caddy pulled over and let us by._"

"Hey, Sands!" I call over my shoulder. "Is a crazy broad better or worse than a techno twink?" I hear a yelp that sounds like "fuckmook", though it might've been "fuck me". I just laugh. Either way, this is even more fun than flirting with George, although by the time I stop the car, I'm probably going to be ready to nail him on the spot. George has changed to a different gun - something really big and noisy, and my ears are ringing, but I think it put a round into their engine block, because suddenly there's a billowing cloud of smoke in the rearview mirror and I catch a glimpse of something blue tumbling down into the gorge beside us.

"_Now all of a sudden she started to knockin', down in the dip she started to rockin'.  
I looked in my mirror; a red light was blinkin' - the cops was after my Hot Rod Lincoln!  
They arrested me and they put me in jail. They called my momma to throw my bail.  
__And she said, 'Girl, you're gonna' drive me to drinkin'  
if you don't stop drivin' that Hot... Rod... Lincoln!'_ "

I ease the Batmobile down to a more sedate pace. George slides back into the passenger seat, stops praying, and starts chewing me out in Spanish. It's rapidfire and highly idiomatic, but I count the word 'loco' thirty-four times before we pull into the parking lot of a seaside hotel in El Dorado, two towns away. I find a spot at the far corner of the lot, and back the Studie in, hoping to made the lack of a rear window less conspicuous.

* * *

A/N: Kate was singing "Hot Rod Lincoln", originally by Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen, with the narrative sex changed. I have an alternate chapter with a different song available upon request. And may I highly recommend "lyricsondemand-dot-com" as a great alternative to having to type up lyrics from liner notes? 


	11. Keeping Score

10. Keeping Score

George is out of the car before I've even got the keys out of the ignition. By the time I do that and grab my bag, he's yanking my door open and looks like he's fixing to start something then and there. I give him an innocent look. His face changes; he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders as I emerge from the car. "It's too hot for that" I complain, trying to give it back.

"Maybe, but it's not so - what's the word? It hides _that_."

For the first time, I notice the red stain blossoming on my right sleeve. I push it up in disbelief and stare at the wound on my upper arm. It doesn't hurt - I'm still absolutely wired with endorphins from that wild ride - but I realize I've been shot - and George takes advantage of my momentary stillness to fling the jacket across my shoulders and steer me toward the entrance with an arm around my waist. I must be in shock; I don't take that as my cue to lay him flat and jump him.

We wind up in two connecting rooms with a bath between, overlooking the Gulf of California. George sits me down on the edge of one of the beds. The wound doesn't hurt - yet - but I'm starting to feel shaky. And silly. I ought to be able to take something like this in stride, for crying out loud. Sands stands on the far side of the bed, near the balcony doors. George blots away the blood with a wet washrag.

"It's still in there," he murmurs to me as I stare at the ugly furrow gouged into my arm back to front. There's a lump under the skin where the pellet is lodged.

"What?" asks Sands, bouncing a little. He's hyper; right now, I hate him for all his surplus energy more than anything. The buzz is starting to wane; I'm going to crash pretty soon, and the first prickles of hurting are starting to make themselves felt.

"They winged Kate," George tells him. "She's got a slug in her arm."

I swallow hard. Sands must hear it, because his glee becomes positively indecent. "Are you going to remove it?" he asks eagerly. "Hey, no big deal - I dug a bullet out of my own leg last year with a pocket knife. Of course, I didn't have to watch it spurt gore, either." He makes being blind sound like a real advantage in such a situation; I'm really wishing the cartel had ripped his tongue out instead. Then I wouldn't be here, bleeding all over some strange hotel room and feeling queasy.

"It was infected," he adds. He's doing it on purpose, trying to gross me out, I know he is. And it's working. "Really messy. Manolo said the stuff oozing out of it was green. Kinda like guacamole -" I lunge full-length across the bed, ignoring my arm, and upchuck, catching Sands from the knees down.

"Oh, you fucking bitch!"

"_Sands_," growls George. "Go wash yourself off and get the hell out of here. You're not helping."

The blind man flounces toward the bathroom, grimacing. After the door closes behind him, and we hear water running, George chuckles. "You are _not _a nice girl" he says admiringly. "Don't worry." He indicates my wound. "That's not too bad."

While Sands hogs the bath, George calls down to the front desk and requests some first aid supplies be sent up. He fishes the bottle of caplets out of his pocket and offers them to me. He even finds a soda machine when I decline a glass of tap water. All I need now is Montezuma's Revenge on top of everything else.

"I've never been shot before," I say to him in a small voice. I feel light-headed and embarrassed. There are stabbing flashes of pain in my arm.

"So I gather," he answers as I gulp down the caplets with a swig of root beer. "Many, many people live their whole lives without ever being shot."

"How many times for you?" I venture. If the graze on his head is bothering him, he hasn't shown it. The fact that he actually has to pause to think about the answer only makes me feel worse.

"Several," he says finally.

Maybe Sands was right, maybe I am just a twink who needs babysitting. No, I'm not going to think that; if I hadn't been here to drive, things would've been fubar. Obviously, Sands _can't _drive and the odds of him hitting a moving target from a moving vehicle - buy a lottery ticket, you'd have a better chance. And George shoots just fine, but trying to operate said vehicle while trying to hit a moving target...nah. On the short list of things I'm really good at, driving like a nocturnal creature recently paroled from the infernal regions is one of them.

As Sands opens the bathroom door and turns to his left, I can see scars on both of his thighs and another on his left arm. I don't know who used him for target practice, but kudos to them.

"Is there any hot water left?" George asks him.

Sands turns, and above the towel wrapped around his slender waist, I see a fourth round scar on the left side of his abdomen. "You gonna wash her back, El?" he leers. "Maybe her front, too, while you're at it?"

"No, I was thinking I would wash your mouth out with soap."

"Yeah, and there's soap left, too. Have fun." Sands goes into the other bedroom, closing the door behind him.

"I really hate that guy," I say.

"Chica, you're not alone."

* * *

**To Kerttu**: Gee, um, thanks, although I think Kate is crazy enough for both of us. 


	12. A Nice Warm Bath

11. A Nice, Warm Bath

There's enough peroxide left, after George liberally pours it over my arm, for me to try to get the worst bloodstains out of what's been one of my favorite tee shirts. He thinks I'm loco, again, for wasting time and effort on it, but I stand swaying over the sink, rinsing the poly-cotton knit repeatedly with fizzing liquid. "Of course, it'll work, I do it all the time," I mumble.

"I thought you said this was the first time you were shot?" he says, looking puzzled. Sometimes, men are just clueless. I stare at him until the light dawns, and am pleased to see his color heighten. I may be shot, but I've puked on an asshole and made a veteran gunfighter blush - not bad before eight in the morning.

While I'm examining the sleeve in question to see if it looks any better, he runs hot water into the tub. "Come on," he coaxes me. "You're so tired, you look like you're going to fall over any minute now."

A glance in the mirror shows he's right. I'm jet-lagged, my arm is throbbing continuously - that OTC shit isn't touching the pain-I've got dark circles under my eyes and I think I'm getting a cold sore. I hang the soggy shirt on the back of the door and peel off the rest of my clothes. He's standing there watching me; at the moment, that's the least of my concerns. Stepping into the tub, I sink down into the warmth of the water. Bliss. I may fall asleep in here...

George has found a clean washrag and begins to soap my back with a gentle, circular motion. My eyelids droop closed as he begins to half-talk, half-sing. In Spanish, so in my condition, I'm not getting much of it. It's a song, or maybe it's poetry and it's just the way he says it. Something about war, angels and heaven...his voice is a low rumble...the parts of me that don't hurt are deliciously relaxed. His fingers have found a knot at the back of my neck, and they're rubbing in little circles, easing the tension. My shoulders get the same treatment; he's careful not to bear down on the right one, but he's kneading it carefully.

Somewhere along the line, he's taken off his shirt - probably doesn't want to get it wet - and when I make the effort to half-open my eyes to smile appreciation for his singing, I get to admire him. He's lean, fit and a dusting of dark hair extends from his throat, down his muscled abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. I count bullet holes. He's tied with Sands, and that's from the front, with his pants still on. I giggle.

"What, surely my singing isn't that bad?" he protests.

"I am _not_ a nice girl," I confide, thinking wicked thoughts, and he gives me a quizzical look.

"Maybe you should wash the rest," he suggests, trying to hand me the washcloth.

"Do I _have _to...?" I bat my lashes at him.

His eyes widen. He tsk-tsks. "You are _not_ -"

"Yeah, yeah, we both agree on that one, George...please?" I lean back in the tub, letting the girls bob up, pert and sassy, and wait.

For a minute, I think he's going to bail - he's staring at me like he's never seen a naked woman before - but he comes around, and in a moment, the soft, slubbed cotton is making a foray down around my collarbones. He's taking his time...at this rate, by the time he's done, the only dirt left is gonna be what's between my ears. My nipples are tight little peaks, and he's proving to my intense satisfaction that he does know his way around a naked woman, shocked looks aside. He's using both hands on the washcloth, which isn't strictly necessary, but it's certainly enjoyable.

Working his way down my belly, he scrubs his way down my right leg, then up my left. The way his hair hangs obscures his eyes, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips. His touch is firm enough not to tickle my feet. His hands sweep slowly up the contours of my shin, and somewhere around my knees, the washrag sinks to the bottom of the tub. The sensation of his calloused fingertips against my inner thighs makes me squirm. The curve of his lips grows more pronounced. When his practiced hands reach the pink cleft of my desire, I yield completely to stars and fireworks.

"Catherine..." His voice caresses the syllables, practically purring. "Cath-ar-reen. Come on, you can't sleep in the bathtub."

Sleeping? I'm not sleeping. I'm...wow. I let him help me up and guide me to the bed, wondering how much luckier I'm going to get. When is the last time I got it on with a guy who wasn't business one way or another? Not a nice girl...

Once he's tucked me in, George returns to the bathroom, and I hear the shower running...that was amazing. I'm hazy, coming closer and closer to the abyss of slumber. When he comes back out and climbs back into bed, I summon the energy to snuggle up against him and shiver. He's taken a cold shower.

"Sleep," he whispers, drawing me closer.

And I do.

* * *

**Amethyst**: Thanks for your input. Sands is tricky; he has charm, but he can be an obnoxious bastard on occasion. "Vicious" wasn't what I was aiming for, but he _does _have a certain callousness toward the suffering of others. Personally, I'm rather fond of him, but Kate is another story. There is further charecter development in the works - it's time to rein in the pace, hopefully without losing too much momentum.

**Kerttu**: Sorry about your coffee, sweetie. Biscotti?

**Dawnie-7, mssparrington**: Yeah, guacamole. Green and nasty. Just thinking about it at 8 in the morning makes me uneasy, and I'm not riddled with bullets. Yeech!

**Mojave Dragonfly**: Romance? Who? What? Where grin> And yes, explanations _will _be forthcoming. That's a drawback to starting with a bang and throwing a lot of action at the players.


	13. Body Count

12. Body Count

When I awaken, it's to the unfamiliar presence of a warm body beside mine in bed. Memory comes back in a rush - I stare at the slumbering man next to me and carefully extricate myself from the sheets and his outflung arm. I'm not a cuddler, and I have a vague sense of panic at winding up in this position. My arm is throbbing; I swallow a couple caplets and more antibiotics with the dregs of the warm, flat root beer, and put my clothes back on, bloodstains a faint rust spot on my right sleeve. I'll have to live with that, at least until I get back to the warehouse and my overnight bag.

The idea of sticking around to make morning-after small talk with George is excruciating. Never mind that it's actually four in the afternoon, or that technically, nothing...much...happened. It's still awkward. Checking out the damage to the Batmobile comes to mind as a legitimate reason to get the heck out of there; I grab my keys and flee. The first thing I see as I get out of the elevator is Sands, slouched in a chair in the lobby. Okay, fine. I don't have to talk to him; I could be anyone getting off the elevator for all he knows. So I saunter confidantly to the front door, patting myself on the back for ignoring the asshole.

"You! Kate! Wait up!" Sands springs out of the chair and skitters over to me. "What, you weren't even going to say 'buenas dias'?" he asks, a mock-pout on his lips.

"I was trying to avoid you," I say bluntly, stepping outside. How the hell did he know it was me? He's as antsy as my friend's Jack Russell Terrier, but I can't believe he's got a nose like one, too.

"Aw, now my feelings are hurt!"

"Sands, if my boss didn't like you for some ungodly reason, I'd be spending this afternoon watching NASCAR and eating buffalo wings, without any bullet holes in me! Yes, I'm trying to avoid you!"

Sands grins. He's keeping pace with me as we cross the parking lot, as briskly as if he could see. "One good thing about you, Kate - you're no back-stabber. I know you'll put the knife right between my ribs, just so you can watch the look on my face. Isn't that right?"

There's no one less than twenty yards away. "Sands," I say quietly. "I know you think I'm just RC's tame techno twink, but I assure you, I've got a body count that's well into double digits. Stop trying to fuck with me, okay?"

"You've killed people?" There's an amused accent on the pronoun.

"In a variety of inventive ways that don't usually involve firearms."

"Ever drill anybody's eyes out?"

"No. I like nice, clean kills."

"Good enough for me." He extends his hand, smiling. "Truce?"

"I'll be as civil as you are," I reply, shaking on it.

When we get to the Batmobile, I'm dismayed. The back window is gone, except for a few crystalline fragments around the edge of the frame. There are two bulletholes in the lid of the trunk. Jiggling the keys, I wrestle the trunk open. The spare's been punctured. Tracing the path of the other shot, I discover it's gone through the back seat - there's a round hole with beige wadding poking out on the backrest - and through the back of the front seat. With a little chill, I look at the red-stained hole in the front of the front seat and realize I know exactly where that bullet wound up.

Sands smokes a cigarette as I pop the hood on the Studie and check the fluids. It's probably due a ring job - it's about a quart low - but there's a half-case of 40-weight in the truck, and I fill it up without making a production of it. Everything else is in good shape, although we're gonna need gas soon. I look sadly at the old car. The Batmobile needs more TLC than Sands is ever gonna give it, but I don't think this is the time to broach the subject of finding it a good home.

"So, what's the story with you and El?" he asks, flicking the butt away and lighting up another.

"There is no story. I found him in that plaza where you got captured, dragged him back to your place, and that's it."

"Uh-huh...and last night?" His voice is sly.

"That _was _last night." I slam the hood down for emphasis.

"I mean bath time! Come on, I know what I heard"

"I don't know what you _think _you heard, Sands, but if you _know _what you heard, then why are you asking me?"

* * *

**quick29**: I'm not ignoring Sands; he just doesn't happen to be the focus of this particular story. I originally had_ Clockwork Mexico _posted in _The Silence of the Lambs_ section, since it's really Kate's story, but decided that because there are two charecters from OUaTiM and only one of her, that it was better off in OUaTiM. She and Sands are too much alike in many ways to "click" that way, even if Sands was ready for intimacy - and after what happened to him, I think it's gonna be a cold day in hell before he lets himself have warm fuzzies again. After killing Marquez, El finally has closure about Caroline's death, and hey, it seems like every third OUaTiM fan-fic out there is Sands/OFC (And half of the rest are El/Sands slash.). Show me **one **where El gets a happy ending and a little nooky.

**dawnie-7**: Gee, Dorothy, I don't think we're in Mexico anymore...no, it wasn't a dream. Although I know what you mean about the good ones that aren't real. I've killed alarm clocks for untimely interruptions...there was this one, no, that's _**definitely**_ NC-17. Never mind!

**mssparrington**: Yeah, a cold shower...what a guy. Kate knows some of his backstory from Sands, but she has no idea how surprised he is by his own feelings right now. More fireworks and UST to come...!


	14. Choirboys

13. Choirboys

It occurs to me that this would be a good time to find out what's really going on. I've been doing nothing but reacting to events for the last twenty-four hours; I still don't know exactly what I'm doing down here. I lounge comfortably on the Studie's massive chrome bumper. "How about you answer some questions, Sands? What's going on that you called RC about? Give me the gist."

Sands hesitates, lights up another smoke. "The truth?" I remind him sweetly.

"Just trying to remember how much I already told you."

"Sands, if I can build a sonar, I'm pretty sure I can follow along. Try me."

"I told you about the business with Barillo, right? Day of the Dead, coup, cartels, all that? And his daughter, Ajedrez, the double agent?"

"The one who lured you into their clutches."

"That's her. I thought we'd pretty much brought down the Barillo organization on the Day of the Dead. When RC and I took on the gang we torched around Christmas time, I thought that was a whole new outfit." Theex-agent sighs. "From what I've been able to piece together since, the syndicate that wants to move in had ties to Barillo through - you're gonna love this - his godson. Guy in charge is Eduardo Gomez. His father has a big operation down around Guadalajara, and what I hear is, he and Barillo used to be choirboys together."

"How Scorcese," I murmur, taking the choirboys part of the tale with a dash of hyperbole. "And he wants revenge, I suppose?"

"Somehow, I wouldn't be surprised. It seems Ajedrez let them know about the CIA's involvement." Sands looks grim. "They tracked me down."

"She fingered you."

"Apparently somebody finally put two and two together and figured out who the agent in question was. They had questions about the company, and I led them back to my place with a story about information only I could access. They didn't think I was a threat, in my condition." A bitter smile twists his face. "That's probably the only reason I'm alive - they never imagined that I was part of the raid on that lab they had set up."

"And where does -" Calling him George would set Sands off again, I'm pretty sure, but I'm not going to call him 'The' either. "Where does that son of Mexico fit in?"

"A few days ago, some of the Gomez boys tried to snatch me. Roughed up Manolo, almost dragged me into their vehicle, but I managed to pop two of them, and the other guy and the driver took off. I got Manolo a bus ticket and sent him off to the village El calls home. Figured I'd get him one way or another - either he'd listen to the kid's story and agree to help, or he'd be pissed enough at me using for the kid as a gofer that he'd come after me. Either way, he'd draw some of the heat."

"Classy of you."

"Friday night, I knew I was being followed. I didn't think it was El - he likes those fancy pants with the chains on them, and they're noisy. I knew I needed someone to cover my ass, so I called RC. Who sent you. Meanwhile, my mysterious pursuer grabbed me, and what do you know, it was El Mariachi in stealth mode, and no, he wasn't too happy about me using the kid as an errand boy. Of course, when he found out about my condition -" Sands pulls down the PSCS in a gesture that would show his eyes if he still had them "- he was a little more reasonable. Just a little. Then the Gomez boys came along -"

"You got into a gunfight with the bad guys. You got captured and he got shot," I finish for him, remembering my briefing. "He got knocked cold by a bullet. I found him and the primary unit at the scene."

Sands nods thoughtfully. "How did you find it?"

"I built the unit. I know how to track it." The finder is still in my bag. I rummage down past all the guns - mine and George's and the one from the armory - my Swiss Army knife and a hairbrush, and pull the device out. "This pings off the relays in the PSCS."

When I turn it on, he shakes his head and winces. "What the fuck is that?"

"You can hear that?" The frequency must interact with the sonor's circuitry. I deactivate the detector.

"Feedback like a chainsaw. Jesus." He straightens up. "Hey...can you make me one of those? A little less piercing, maybe?"

"What for?"

"For Manolo. So he can track me down if he has to."

"He's just a kid, Sands. Do you really think you should be involving him in all this? What about the CIA? Can't you get any help from them?"

"No, I'm a free agent, so to speak. The company and I have agreed to disagree."

Whatever that's supposed to mean. "I don't understand why you're doing any of this. Staying here. Going after them. It's crazy."

"Of course." A humorless smirk. "I _am _crazy. Ask anyone. There's one of me, and an infinite supply of them, and I don't fucking care. I'm not going to let them defeat me. It's that simple."

* * *

**Mojave Dragonfly**: What? Checking fluids is part of essential automotive maintenance. ;-) 

**mssparrington**: As you can probably tell, dialogue is my friend.

**Dawnie-7**: Yeah. Of course, with Kate Sands, a truce is something along the lines of, "Okay, I won't shoot you - but I will call you an asshole if you act like one."


	15. Libido Loco

14. Libido Loco

Walking through the lobby on our way up to the suite, Sands and I meet George, on his way out of the small general store the hotel boasts. He's found a clean shirt somewhere, is freshly shaved and his mahogany hair is pulled neatly back.

"Let's take another look at your arm," he suggests, once we've gotten upstairs. The bag of stuff he's procured includes more peroxide, a souvenir tee-shirt and a fresh can of root beer. I'm touched.

With the Dixie Chicks shirt off again, and the gauze unwrapped, the wound looks really nasty. George is shaking his head. "Are you allergic to penicillin?" he asks. I shake my head. "Good, take two of these."

"You know, if you've got the kind in capsule form, you can pour it directly into the wound," Sands offers.

"All they had was tablets."

"I'm sure this'll be fine," I say, and knock them back with some pop. I hope so; my arm doesn't look good.

"I don't like the way it's inflamed," George broods. "I'd try to get the bullet out, but they didn't have any tweezers."

Once again, I go purse-diving. "Manicure kit!" I say, triumpant, as I pull it out.

A grin from the big Mexican. "Nice work. I don't suppose you've got a needle and a couple feet of catgut in there, do you?" He's floored when my compact sewing kit produces a curved needle - I've never used it on myself, but it came in handy once on a wilderness trip. No catgut, but I've got waxed dental floss. He blinks.

Guys. They just don't get it. That's what purses are for - so you have the stuff you need with you when you need it. Sheesh.

First there's peroxide, then there's prodding. My right hand is grasping my left shoulder as he probes the wound. I clench my teeth - I can be as macho as the next guy: I'm gonna prove it. Sweet fuck, that hurts, and so far, all George is doing is finding the damn bullet. He's found it, alright. Okay, it hurts, all three of us know it hurts, but I am not going to cry like a girl, I'm not, I'm not !

"You won't believe how much this is going to hurt," he says quietly. His left hand braces my injured arm against my side, and I take a deep breath. The tweezers are about an inch deep under my skin, looking tiny in George's big, blunt fingers.

"Oh, God, I can't watch!" Sands wails theatrically, and as I look toward him to cuss him out, George wrenches the bullet free with a good-size chunk of my arm, by the feel of it. My jaw drops, and the next sound out of my mouth is going to be highly soprano and disturb the other guests for several floors around.

Swiftly, George leans forward and covers my mouth with his. As diversions go, this one is magnificent. I concentrate on his velvet lips for all I'm worth. I've discovered a whole new kind of sonar...it echoes from our mouths to the kernel of pleasure between my thighs. The pain is distant; it's happening to someone else, on another planet. His right hand is cupping my left breast and his other hand is around my waist. My left hand is unbuttoning his shirt, while my right hand, oblivious to what's going on north of its elbow, is kneading the front of his tight pants.

Any second now, I'm going to drag him down on top of me and start tearing the rest of our clothes off. I don't care: the three most dangerous words in the English language. Something in my brain has short-circuited. Restraint? Yeah, right! Every female hormone I possess is shrieking more! more - never mind that I'm oozing blood and hurting. I could bleed to death in mid-tryst, and I'd still have a smile on my face.

We get a wake-up call from Sands, who clears his throat. "I'd say get a room, but, ah..."

At that, George and I glare at Sands, who ought to spontaneously combust right then - then look speculatively at the gun on the bedside table. There's a moment of mental telepathy - we're both wondering which of us would get to do the honors - and we simultaneously burst out laughing.

"Was it something I said?" he inquires. "Come on, you guys, I'm blind, not deaf. You're supposed to be sewing up her arm, not taking out her tonsils."

"I haven't had tonsils since I was eight years old," I say primly...then dissolve into helpless laughter again.

"Yeah, well, I'm not even gonna go there," snickers Sands. "You guys quit playing doctor and take care of business, will you?" He walks back through the connecting area and into the other room.

There's an awkward moment as the man I've barely known for twenty-four hours looks back at me. I'm not usually like this; I'm always the one who's in control. Bad things happened the last time I wasn't in control. Now my self-discipline is in splinters, being rinsed away with hydrogen peroxide. Strong fingers pat my shoulder gently. Slowly, I move my right hand to the broad plain of his chest, letting it lie flat against his dark, wiry pelt.

As he takes up the curved needle, his face is intent with concentration. His eyes are amber, with little flecks of gold and copper, his skin the color of mocha. Beneath my hand, I feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. I try to mirror his slow, even breathing. I do my best to let go of the discomfort, concentrating on my breath: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, following his lead. The balcony doors are open; I hear the rush of the surf on the beach, background music to the pulsebeat in my ears. I'm calm. There's nothing I can do about the sensation of pain; it's part of being alive...only a small part... I'm aware of the needle piercing my arm as he stitches the wound closed, aware of his looming presence...the warmth of his skin beneath my fingers...how careful he's being...the lingering desire I feel deep down...he's a fine-looking man, that's the first thing I noticed about him, but he's more than that...I trust him completely, and I don't understand why...

"All done" he says, centuries later. I come back from the warm safe haven I've been floating in...his amber eyes are sanctuary. George eases closer to me, arms encircling me protectively and I rest the side of my face against his chest as he strokes my hair. Warm and safe...I sigh...his lips brush my forehead. It's not about sex this time...it's something else. I'm not sure quite what. This is unfamiliar territory - no maps, no GPS.

The rational Kate who looks at intimacy as a game for suckers is ranting in a sound-proofed room somewhere in the Marianas Trench. I hope she stays there.

* * *

**Dawnie-7**: Yes, everything really does happen for a reason. It wasn't all just an excuse to hook up Kate and El. Honest. 


	16. Hormones

15. Hormones

The three of us are having dinner in a restaurant down the block from the hotel when my phone rings. Sands snickers as "I've Got Friends in Low Places" gets louder and louder as I try to find it under all the accumulation in my bag, including my "wounded" tee shirt. The bright yellow El Dorado tee I'm wearing is at least clean, although the dive we're in looks like it's used to tacky tourists.

"Yeah?" I answer shortly.

"Kate, where the hell are you?" my boss asks.

"Don't panic, everything's under control," I say. "I've tried to call you, but one or the other of us was out of service range."

"Under control? There's a house full of dead Mexicans here! I'd hate to see what you call out of control."

I inhale sharply. "You're _at _the house?"

"Yes, I'm at the house. As soon as Lee got back, I had him turn around and fly me down here. Now, where the hell are you, and what happened to Lucifer?"

"I'm having dinner with him right now. We're in El Dorado. Here." I extend the phone. "Sands, will you kindly reassure RC as to your continued survival?"

The ex-agent takes the phone from me. "You were worried about me? Aw, how sweet." He listens. "You are? Really? Yeah, seven sounds about right. He did? All seven? Yeah, the kid's a pistol. Sounds good to me. Okay. Back to you, sugarbritches." He waves the instrument in my direction and I take it.

"So, what's up?"

"How soon can you get back here? We need to sit down and have a strategy session about this cartel - I'm not going to keep running down here every couple months."

"That wasn't my idea." As Sands would say, this latest development really cramps my style. It's one thing to exchange meaningful looks with George in Sands's presence, something else entirely around my employer, who misses nothing. "We'll be there in a couple hours."

"Come to the warehouse. It's more secure."

"Will do." I hang up and jam the phone back in my bag, steaming. Too bad I can't give Sands his car keys and send him back to town while I make sweet music with George. No, I have to go be the designated twink while they come up with some damn crazy scheme to take out the bad guys.

"What's wrong?" George wants to know, watching me.

"We've been ordered back to Culiacan for planning. Tonight. My employer doesn't want to have to come running down here every couple of months."

"Bullshit," snaps the blind man. "Fighting cartels is like mowing the lawn. Doing it once doesn't mean it's done."

It's a good thing I was almost through with my meal anyway; I've just lost my appetite. At the moment, I'd cheerfully shoot Sands - he popped back into our room minutes after George finished sewing me up with a greeting of "Are you decent?" - and dragged us out to dinner.

Over drinks, I'd proposed our return to Culiacan - in the morning, allowing tonight for whatever was going to happen with George to happen. That's just been shot right out of the water. I'm so furious, I wouldn't mind plugging my boss, either. Damn, a day and a half in Mexico and I'm turning into a regular gun bunny. Sands is grumbling under his breath and chewing his pork like he wants to rip somebody's throat out. Then George rests his hand on mine, and to my horror, tears spill down my cheeks.

"I've got to go gas up the car," I blurt out, and hurry away from the table before he can say anything.

Hormones, I tell myself. It's gotta be hormones. I'm PMS-ing like crazy, that's why I'm horny enough to bark and ready to shoot everybody in sight. I keep telling myself this as I drive around El Dorado looking for a service station and take care of the Batmobile's depleted tank. That's undoubtedly why, once the tank is full, I pull into a quiet corner of the parking lot and cry for twenty minutes. Hormones don't have to make sense. I don't have to rationalize them. Never mind that I haven't cried since my mom's funeral, more than a decade of tears pent up for every tear-jerking movie, cute puppy dog, beautiful sunset lonely grieving caring needy moment. God, what an idiot I am. No, it's just hormones.

I get a cold can of soda from the gas station's vending machine, and hold it against my eyes to help reduce the puffiness.

Pull yourself together, woman, I say to myself. Go back to the hotel and get them and go do what you have to do. Doesn't matter what you want to do - or who you want to do, don't kid yourself. Okay, so he's a hot guy. The world is full of hot guys. He's not worth having a meltdown over.

Maybe the pep-talk's helped, or maybe the hormone surge has run its course for now. Once I've stopped sniffling, I point the Batmobile toward the hotel.

* * *

**Dawnie-7**: The guidelines for ratings have always seemed a bit vague to me, so I try to make my smut as classy as I can. Passion without porno, if ya know what I mean.  
**mssparrington**: I've got a special fondness for hurt-comfort. And all those pain-killing endorphins the brain produces can make you a little crazy.  
**Mojave Dragonfly**: Gracias! The idea for the title occured to me early on, I was just waiting for the right plot circumstances to use it. 


	17. The Lunch Run

My bad! Was hurrying to get out the door this a.m. and neglected to post. Here's today's!

* * *

16. The Lunch Run

Our drive back to Culiacan is almost silent. By now, it's almost midnight. I drive carefully. I don't push the old car past forty-five - it's an uphill track, and I don't want to strain the ancient tranny. I don't particularly care about how fast I can get to where we're going, and I'm in no mood to sing. Sands is quiet in the back seat - it's impossible to tell whether he's even awake - and George and I aren't looking at each other. He doesn't try to comfort me. He keeps his hands to himself. I concentrate on the road, like a conscientious driver should.

When we rattle into the warehouse and the bay door rolls down behind us, I'm all business. I shrug off RC's questions about the hole in my arm as "just a scratch". When Sands introduces the man I've been calling "George" as "El", I don't say a word. I briskly relate the events of the last thirty-six hours without betraying the soft center that threatens to melt me from the inside out.

Sands chimes in with details about the Gomez organization; that gives me some breathing room. The compound that he and RC fried isn't far from the old Barillo estate, which Gomez has taken over. George/El knows his way around that place; he was briefly a captive there during the events surrounding the failed coup. I ask questions about their surveillance systems; I'm supposed to be technical, I'll act technical. The bull session goes on for several hours, until RC decrees a rest.

We camp out in stray corners; I use my overnight bag as a pillow (after changing into fresh clothes, whew!). We're far enough above sea level that it's fairly cool, even in late June. I'm chilled and shivering, my arm hurts and I'm pissed off and horny and the last twenty-four hours have been a goddam emotional rollercoaster.

A tall figure moves gracefully across the darkened room. George drapes his jacket across me. "Buenas noches, Catherine," he whispers, and moves on. The black linen still holds the warmth of his body. The scent it carries is him...sage and gunpowder and his own personal brand of testosterone.

I stop shivering. My arm still hurts, but I'm not quite so pissed any more. I should've expected my boss to show up hot on my heels...after all, it wasn't me Sands wanted in the first place. The whole business with me and George...I can still work with him, can't I? Unresolved sexual tension not withstanding, he's a professional, I'm a professional, we're all professionals, with the exception of Manolo, who'll probably be getting a job offer from Millennium as soon as he's of age. Apparently, when RC got to Sands's place, there was the kid, stuffing bodies into the car they'd arrived in, preparing to go ditch it somewhere. That shows the right kind of initiative, my employer claims. Forty-eight hours and two thousand miles ago, I was yawning and stretching and sallying forth to shop. What a weekend it's been...

Monday officially starts with RC leaning on the horn of the jeep, urging us all to rise and shine. It's ten a.m., which means I've had maybe five hours sleep...but there's a coffee pot in the space set up as our conference room, and I stagger over and pour a cup. Sugar...yeech. More sugar. RC's coffee always tastes like lighter fluid.

When George joins me, reaching for a mug, I pass his jacket back with a nod of thanks. Our eyes meet. Professionals. At least for now.

The two ex-agents are wrangling about how to get the cartel to make the first move. Since my job isn't that end of it, I go over to the workbench and start putting together the tracker Sands requested. This isn't rocket science; I know I've hit the jackpot when the light goes on and Sands stops in mid-sentence, shaking his head.

That didn't take me long. It's only about eleven-thirty, and RC announces that food would be a good idea. "Kate, you mind making a lunch run?" I know a command when I hear it.

"I could go for some pibil," Sands agrees. "Hey, honeybunch, wanna stop by El Tarantula Azul and get me some puerco pibil?" Sounds like the truce is over. I've been demoted to twink and Sands is using sexist nicknames again.

"Sure," I seethe with artificial perkiness. "What does everybody want?" I get orders, and George offers to help carry things for me, but RC cuts him short.

"Stick around, I've got more questions about that compound you were in." My thirty-pound purse is slung over my shoulder, my keys are in my hand, and as I'm walking through the door from the office/workroom out to the garage bay, my boss adds, "Oh, and Kate? Take the jeep."

It's the tone that gets me. It says I'm not a responsible adult anymore, I'm not a valued employee, I'm a brainless gofer with no more important function than to get lunch for the people who matter. I punch the panel to raise the door at the end of the bay hard enough to make my sutures throb. Striding across the concrete, I stomp past the jeep without a sideways glance. As the Batmobile roars to life, I peel rubber out of there. Take the Jeep? You can take the Jeep and drive it where the sun don't shine!

The cantina Sands mentioned is the place where we first met. I have a little trouble finding it - I've never come at it from this direction before - but soon enough, I'm giving the orders to the gal at the counter and staring into space.

My first inkling of trouble comes when I see a couple guys outside, giving the Studebaker the eye. Aw, shit. I should've known better; it's an eye-catching car to begin with, and with a destroyed back window and bullet holes in the trunk, it's even more conspicuous. They'd never have given the Jeep a second glance. One of them looks toward the cantina and says something to the other one. They start moving in my direction.

Moving on instinct, the first thing I do is dive into my purse. Cell phone-speed dial RC, leave the line open. There are three guns in my bag - and all of them are buried beneath my dirty Dixie Chicks tee shirt. I grope for any one of them. By then, the cartelistas have the drop on me. Double shit. "I don't want any trouble," I say, playing it American. I raise my hands. "I'm just here to get some lunch."

They both have guns trained on me, and I'd really rather not get shot again. "Okay, guys, you win," I say, loudly enough to be heard over the phone, I hope. "I'll go quietly."

* * *

**Dawnie-7**: Yeah, but I'd still rather be a gal, hormones and all. Guys' shoes are so boring! 

**Mojave Dragonfly**: Just 19.95 at 'Metaphors R Us' while supplies last.

**mssparrington**: You're looking forward to RC? Kate sure ain't !


	18. Question and Answer

17. Question and Answer

"You are going to tell us everything you know about the Central Intelligence Agency," says the scar-faced son-of-a-bitch who's got me strapped spread-eagled to a table. Guess I really am in trouble: everything I know about the CIA is what I've read in Tom Clancy novels. I need to buy time; RC probably suspected something like this would happen. Hopefully, the call I attempted went through. The contents of my shoulder bag are lying on a countertop: guns, gadgets, keys, wallet, grooming products and that poor old tee shirt. The bag itself looks like a deflated Macy's balloon.

"What do you want to know?" I'm trying to convince myself that this isn't so bad; I've still got my clothes on, and I'm not at the bottom of a pit. On the other hand, remembering what happened to Sands, my stomach teeters. It hasn't been a fun afternoon; if I'd foreseen several sizzling hours of being locked in the trunk of a car and rattling around over the worst roads imaginable, I might not have gone so quietly.

Scarface - not that he resembles Al Pacino, not on the best day he ever had, he's just butt-ugly - has a better idea. Out of a drawer, he pulls something with a long strap and a remote control. Grinning down at me, panting on me with breath that would strip paint, he buckles the strap around my neck, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. It's a shock collar, like they use in dog training. "What's your name?" he asks.

"Kate Martin."

He zaps me. "Don't lie! We have your passport. We know who you are, we know what you do. And we noticed something interesting...there's no stamp showing you entered this country, so we know you're here undercover."

My passport lists me as Catherine Anne Martin, occupation, consultant. No customs stamp for this whirlwind visit, that's true - unfortunately, the conclusions they've drawn are erroneous, but it's not like they're going to believe me. Scarface's sidekick says something in Spanish about about getting me hooked and keeping me as a playmate. In the unlikely event that the Rescue Rangers don't show up to save the day, it would be interesting to see them try that strategy. Me, a playmate? Yeah, right.

"What's your name?" Scarface barks again.

"Catherine Anne Martin."

"How long have you worked for the Central Intelligence Agency?" Saying I don't work for the CIA and I never have is only going to get me zapped again. I think of my failed application to the FBI and give that year.

"Who was responsible for the destruction of my factory?" asks a voice from the doorway. The two in the room come to attention. He's better dressed than either of them, a compact, stocky man, in his mid-thirties. He carries himself with an assured air.

Señor Gomez, I presume. "I don't know," I say, already knowing what's going to happen, and it does. I yell. Let them think I'm a twink. "I don't know! I don't know! You've got to believe me!"

"You're lying!" says Scarface, fingering the remote. Here's a guy who likes his job, you can tell. There's a big grin on his homely face because he gets to use one of his favorite toys - gets to use it a lot, because I'm not giving him what he wants.

"I don't know! I'm not in ops! I'm just an accountant!"

"An accountant?" repeats Gomez, sceptical. "What would an accountant from the Central Intelligence Agency be doing in Culiacan?"

"One of our agents retired here," I answer quickly. "Agent Sands. I'm here to discuss his retirement benefits with him. Usually we'd just send him the forms, but-" I stop. Um, maybe telling professional torturers what happened to Sands wouldn't be such a good idea. "-there are extenuating circumstances. So, you see, I wouldn't be privy to any information about active agents operating in this area."

The boss looks at the creep with the remote, and nods. Scarface gives me a longer, harder jolt this time. White light is starting to flicker at the edges of my vision, and I wonder, panicked, if it's possible for them to give me so much juice with that thing that my eyeballs pop. I let myself scream - not completely acting - and as soon as the voltage cuts off, I start reciting Sands's hypothetical benefit information - the details of my portfolio and insurance, but it's 100-percent truthful and thoroughly boring.

Gomez looks at the row of guns by my bag and sneers. "They must have been very dangerous forms. We'll see just how useful you can be." He looks at the other two and continues in Spanish. "Break her. When she has nothing left to give up, give her a dose of -" a word I don't recognize "- and bring her to me." He smiles and says to me, in English, "I'll be seeing you again, Señorita Martin."

Yeah, and I'll be having prairie oysters Rockefeller when you do, I think though a surge of pain as Scarface cranks the control again. I'm too busy gasping for breath to holler after a few minutes of their treatment. Scarface asks more questions about the attack on the factory, and I'm so brain-fried I can't even think of a convincing lie.

Why lie? Why not just give up RC? Hmm. The idea has merit. Again, it's perfectly true, and after all, my boss was hoping to lure the cartel into the open.

There's some kind of disturbance in the distance; I perk up as the second thug leaves the room, gun drawn, leaving me alone with Scarface. "Is that them?" he demands. "Is it the CIA?"

I actually grin. "Nope, I'm pretty sure that's not the CIA." I know the sound of those guns by now. More guns, coming closer. I open my mouth to hail them, when Scarface cranks the voltage to barbecue, and I can't freaking breathe.

* * *

**Dawnie-7**: No wonder Sands likes western boots - he _does _have a certain sense of style. 

**Mojave Dragonfly**: Although for Sands, 'honeybunch' is pretty mild. Yeah, it's sexist and condescending, but at least he's not singling out parts of her anatomy. Kate being Kate - well, it _was _in charecter for her. She's not dumb, but she sure has a stubborn streak. (Which comes in handy when you're being tortured.) And she has a weakness for cool cars, but more about that in a few days...


	19. Battle Lines

18. Battle Lines

Through a white haze of pain, a dark shape appears at the door, pauses, and shoots Scarface, who goes down in a spray of bullets. Couldn't happen to a nicer guy. Sands makes his way over to the table. I can't get enough air to warn him about the current still flowing though me; he reels away, stumbling over Scarface's body. As he picks himself up, searching for his gun, he comes across the remote. Figures out what it's for. Pushes the right button. I gulp in precious air. "Kate?" He's got his weapon now, and listens for my reply. "Is that you, Kate? Say something!"

"They thought I was CIA." Sands steps carefully over to the table and begins loosening the restraints on my wrists; as soon as I get a hand free, I yank off the collar. "Thanks. Oh, god, my ears are ringing. Where are the others?"

"Here somewhere. I caught your signal and came ahead." Signal? What signal? I limp over to the counter - the tracker is off, what the hell is he talking about? Just then, the rest of the party arrives.

"It's just whoever is left up at the main house. We've got the rest of them," says RC. "Good, you found her. Kate, any damage?"

"I'm fine," I lie. I hurt everywhere. I'm going to kill Gomez. Slowly.

"Good. You stay here with Sands, we're going up to the big house."

"No." I've never directly contradicted my boss before, but I'm not staying here, with or without Sands. I'm faintly amused to see how many guns I've acquired in two days. I check the first clip, sweep the most of my stuff into my bag - it's much lighter without two of the guns - check the load on the second gun, and turn to George. "Let's go."

"Where do think you're going?" growls RC.

Balancing the guns in my fists, I take a deep breath. "I'm fixin' to go teach that sorry son of a bitch Gomez a lesson in whupp-ass. I am sick and goddamned tired of being ordered around and talked down to, and I'm gonna take it out on him. Unless you want a piece first?"

Apparently not. We're both armed and dangerous, but my employer just stands staring at me like I just grew a third eye. Or is targeting me for later, I don't know.

"Are you all right?" George asks me once we're out of earshot of the others.

"I'm a bit shaky," I admit, "but I owe that bastard Gomez a hurtin'." I'm swaying a little, and I know tomorrow I'll hurt even worse. "You know the way. I've got your back."

He gives me a couple minutes to rest and catch my breath while he briefs me on the layout of the hacienda. The main house is two stories, directly ahead of us. To the right is a low building with a row of doors, servants' quarters. On the left, the landscaped back wall of what must be at least a six-car garage. There's a courtyard surrounded by columned walkways between us and the house, lamentably well-lit.

"Wait," I say, thinking. This place is old, old enough that electricity was probably an add-on, meaning that if we're lucky...yes! "Over there, on the wall to the right of the door with the awning...can you hit that bundle of wires?"

"Let's find out," he murmurs, switching guns. It's probably a lot like watching Tiger Woods choose just the right iron, except Tiger doesn't have that sexy accent...oh God, I'm doing it again! George braces his left forearm against one of the columns and lays the barrel of the gun across it, sighting on the elusive target. One perfectly placed shot later, and the atrium is in darkness, relieved only by the lights shining out from the rooms and the glow of the half-moon overhead.

Progressing toward the bulk of the house, I trail George by several yards. It's a nice view. As he prowls past one door, it opens silently inward, and a man steps out, gun in hand, taking aim. Shooting him will bring everyone running, not shooting him could get George dead. "Psst!" I hiss behind the pistolero, who starts and half-turns in my direction. He gets thumped upside the head with one of my gun butts and goes down as George turns to look.

Grabbing his gun, I give the guy another whack for good measure. I've got two guns in my bag now, and one in each hand. George's teeth flash in the moonlight. "You're getting quite a collection," he compliments me in a whisper. "What are you going to do with them all?"

"Oh, hush!" I reply, same tone. My body's natural pain-killers must've kicked in, because I feel incredible: alive, alert, and ready to kick butt. "You'll get yours back!"

He chuckles. "Yes," he agrees. "I'll get mine." That's a promise if I ever heard one.

Someone's gotten smart. The lights in the house are going out. Soon, they'll be coming to hunt us. The end of the building nearest the garage is still bright. "Library," George points out.

"Smell like a rat to you, or just a rat trap?"

He indicates the door near the trashed electrical bundle. It's at the other end of the sprawling hacienda. "Kitchen." Kitchens have knives, is my happy thought. Nice, quiet knives. Some jobs a Swiss Army knife isn't up to, and the guerilla tactics I'm thinking of are on the list. I nod.

No one is in the room as we enter. It's a big, square room with an island - a bank of cabinets with clerestory windows over them to our right, a wall of folding louvered doors straight ahead, and two doors on the left-hand wall. The nearest one seems to be some kind of pantry. The far one leads to a service corridor, which is still lit, giving us enough illumination to maneuver quietly. There's a ton of cutlery ranged on a magnetic strip below the cabinets. I trade one of guns for a business-like Smith and Heinckels with a good edge on the blade.

Then our luck runs out.

* * *

**Kerttu**: Yeah, my toes curled writing both the tub scene and the sewing scene. Rrrow! Kate and Sands are way too much alike; warped senses of humor and both want the last word! Lucky El, caught between those two! There's more angst ahead before poor Kate gets any "quiet time". 

**mssparrington**: The gunpowder/sage/testosterone line was one of my favorites...I tried to think of what El's jacket would evoke, besides warm fuzzies. I like Tom Clancy, though I tend to skip past the "technical" bits and go for the intrigue.

**Dawnie-7**: I agree, very uncouth - and a big mistake on their part. Treat Kate like a dog and she turns into a real bitch.


	20. Dancing in the Dark

19. Dancing in the Dark

A section of the louvered doors folds back, and an old woman steps out carrying a basket of laundry. She sees us, and lets out an unholy screech. I'm closer, but George is faster. He gets in front of me, blocking me, clamps a hand over the old lady's mouth, and begins hauling her and her laundry across the room. I hear him say something to her in Spanish about being there to hurt bad men, not grandmothers. He dexterously boosts her into the pantry and throws the bolt on the outside of the door.

There are footsteps coming down the hallway. "Philomena?" a man calls. The crone is banging on the door and caterwailing. So much for the element of surprise.

I ease over to within a foot or two of the doorjamb, waiting. After a moment, a gun appears. This is followed by an arm. As soon as I see the guy's chin - before he's in far enough to see me - I slam my fist and the hilt of the knife solidly into his Adam's apple. It's a simple, relatively quiet way to kill somebody - if they don't have their finger on the trigger of an automatic weapon at the time. A short burst of fire turns the tin ceiling into scrap as the guy goes down, choking on his own blood. Oh lovely, another gun. And the damn things keep getting bigger. This is definitely not going to fit in my bag.

Glancing down the hallway shows it clear. When the first gunman appears at the far end, I raise the hand with the gun and shoot him, almost dropping the gun from the recoil. I'm impressed that I actually hit him, since I'm not a lefty. I tuck the knife on top of the stuff in my bag. No question, this is a two-handed gun.

The service way is lit, the rooms on either side are not. Can you say sitting ducks? With a quick shot, George takes out the fixture, plunging the hallway into near-darkness. Together, we start down the corridor.

He covers the right, I've got the left. There's no one in the fancy, formal dining room. George gets off a shot at someone on his side. We continue, carefully, without breaking our pace. It's like dancing back to back, slowly, the length of the hall, which runs about half the length of the house. I have a crazy, random thought: Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards and in high heels.

There's open space ahead; we're both wary - and with good reason. It's a spacious foyer with an upstairs landing that rings the sweeping staircase. George and I exchange glances. He holds up a finger: wait. Backtracking down the hall, he disappears into one of the rooms. He returns pushing a wheeled office chair, with a body in it. I step aside as he moves closer to the end of the corridor. When he gives the chair an almighty shove, the corpse goes sailing like it's diving for cover - and draws a hail of fire from the balcony above.

George darts out and returns fire, moving steadily ahead. I follow, Ginger to his Fred, avoiding the dead man and the chair, making it to the cover under the stairs. There's another gunman on the side we crossed over from, and his shots are coming uncomfortably close. I'm going to have to step away from cover to get off a decent shot at him. Meanwhile, George is blazing away to our left - there are one or more of them in a family room, or something - plaster from the underside of the stairs explodes inches away from me.

Moving out from the overhang of the stairs, I train the automatic on the section of balcony that the fireis coming from, and spray it with bullets, doing my best to ignore the shots coming my way. Close doesn't count.By the time the clip is out of ammo, there are no more shots raining down from the sniper.

As soon as the shots from above cease, I turn to the corridor ahead. "I've got point." The overhead light on that side buys it, and I focus on the distant library doors, a crack of light showing through them.

"Right." He's concentrating on the room behind the stairs, and I dart toward the far end of the hallway, ready to pop anybody who sticks a nose out. I take the opportunity to switch to a fresh gun, discarding the empty one. The heavy pistol seems curiously small after that behemoth. After a moment, George joins me. Navigating the second corridor, we've got the pace down to an artform. No one challenges us. Have we gotten all of them, or are there more waiting, guarding their leader?

The library boasts a set of ornate double doors, slightly ajar, which open inward. From the library comes the sound of a round being chambered. There's a whisper of sound behind us.

Whirling, I nail the creep who thinks he's sneaking up behind us. Coming back around full circle, I make eye contact with George. As if we've rehearsed it, we each kick one of the doors and hurl ourselves into the room in a double dive-and-roll. Buckshot peppers the doors - by then we're low and inside and tackling the SOB with the shotgun. George's head whips around to scan the room for more threats as I crack the cartelista's skull with his own gunstock.

We're alone in the room. Gomez is gone.

* * *

**mssparrington**: Sands is a little spooky sometimes, isn't he? And things are going to get even more tense with RC. 

**Dawnie-7**: Who, Kate? Let's just say when she decides to get something out of her system, it can be fatal.

**kerttu**: Have you been reading ahead? (grin) That knife may be in her bag for now, but you'll be seeing it again...


	21. GT350

20. GT350

From outside the library, a squeal of brakes. The open French doors would be fast, but they're bound to be expecting that, aren't they? "Front door?" I suggest.

"Yes, I think that would be a much better idea."

As we retrace our steps through the darkened house, the only sound is the distant banging and shouting of the old woman in the kitchen. We emerge into a plaza with a circular driveway, and to our left near the French doors is a long, black limo. Its passenger door slams. Apparently there's no one left to shoot at us; we're unchallenged as we race toward it.

It's clear that the fucking thing is armor-plated - the way our bullets bounce off it, we might as well be using pea-shooters. Even several direct hits to the windows don't cause any visible damage. It accelerates with a scream of rubber. Swerving, the driver aims right for us.

George pushes me back, waiting until the last possible second to dodge, then he ducks down and gets off a shot at the right front tire. The big car spins out as the tire blows. He leaps out of the way as it fishtails and slams, sideways, into the front steps. Another tire bursts off the rim, and as the driver tries to get it moving again, George grabs the nearest door and dives in, gun drawn.

In seconds, the driver is dead, and we have the limo. George overrides the locks to the rear door, and I snatch it open. I find a girl staring back at me, wide-eyed. She's not more than fourteen, and I'm disgusted. Looking at the scrap of a dress she's wearing, I can only guess that she's one of Señor Gomez's little playmates. She's unarmed; and alone in the car.

The sudden thunderous roar of an engine and the pop and crunch of gravel divert my attention from the kid in the limo. Something red and speedy streaks around the corner of the garage and zooms away down the drive. I swear and bolt for the garage. The bay is open; there are several vehicles still there, and I discover a peg-board with keys on the wall inside the door. Guess cartel kingpins don't worry about getting jacked like peons do. Inventorying the cars swiftly, I snag a key and race for the matching vehicle as George catches up to me.

"This?" he asks in disbelief. "Why don't you take the jeep?"

"That's no fun!" I say, cranking the engine with a feral grin, "I'll match this fine American classic against any pasta rocket Enzo ever hatched. Hang on!"

I think his resulting comment translates to "Here we go again," but I don't ask him to repeat it.

The Italian car - I didn't get a good look at it - is ahead of us by maybe a minute, if that. He's more familiar with the road, but like every other thoroughfare I've seen lately, it's not much of a road. He doesn't have spit in the way of clearance; it's not going to handle worth a damn - I'm gonna catch up with him, and things are gonna get interesting. As I whip around the corner of the building and skid past the dead limo, another vehicle pulls out on the far side. I recognize RC's jeep and honk in passing.

"I always wanted to drive one of these things!" I scream as it vrooms up the drive. I slam it into fourth and rocket between the gateposts and out onto the main road. "Nineteen sixty-eight GT350 Ford Mustang by Carroll Shelby! Greatest American car ever built! Whooooeee!"

He's praying again. I don't know why; this road isn't nearly as bad as our Sunday morning slalom. Ditches, but no cliffs yet. It's twisty, but so far, no 180-hairpins. And goddam, this baby can scoot! For years, I've been saying "Drive it like you stole it" - now I _am _and I have, and it's even more fun than I thought it would be.

"I see taillights!" I sing out. "Come on, George, you can't shoot him with your eyes closed! Don't forget to roll down the window first."

The Ferrari ahead of us is getting closer; I can't believe what a pussy this guy is! He's driving a car than cost more than the GNP of some small third-world countries, and he's not doing more than fifty. "When I pull alongside, can you try to put one through the block?"

Eleven repetitions of 'loco' later, I'm drawing up on his rear quarter-panel and then I'm looking over at Señor Gomez, whose mouth hangs open at the sight of us. Apparently, driving requires his full concentration; he doesn't pull a gun or anything as George sights on the engine compartment and puts a round into something vital. Whatever he hits takes out the drivetrain; I throw it into neutral and hit the brakes, a series of quick taps to slow the 350 as the pasta rocket corkscrews ahead of us.

"Whoa -" I coax the muscle car as I struggle to dump velocity before we get involved in the Ferrari's crash-in-progress. "Easy, baby!"

The red nose of the Italian sports car is swinging our way. I stomp hard on the brakes and steer into the resulting skid, away from the Ferrari, feeling the old Shelby sway on its racing suspension, bucking on the rough road. It's one of those zen and the art of driving moments. Me, car, road...yeah. Coming out of the slide, I drop it into third and swerve around the red car that's now at a dead stop in the middle of the road.

Surprisingly, the other car is still upright, steam and fumes coming from under the hood as we walk toward it. Gomez has fumbled his way clear of the ruined car, and found a pistol somewhere. Of course, he's shaking so hard he can't hit anything when he shoots. The first bullet goes wild. His second shot hits something metallic. I look over my shoulder and see a round hole in the Shelby's deck.

I elbow past George and throw myself at Gomez, knocking him flat. I proceed to pound the crap out of him. "You Philistine! That's a sixty-eight Shelby! You do -_not_- shoot Shelbys!" I punctuate my speech with punches. All things considered, I'm more pissed at him for shooting the car than I am about being turned into a crispy critter. I'll be fine in a day or two; the car is gonna need some work.

"George," I say, straddling the cowering drug lord. "Would you be so kind as to bring me that nice big knife that's in my purse?"

* * *

**Mojave Dragonfly**: This is a HUGE compliment coming from the author of "Sons of Mexico"! Deepest thanks.

**Dawnie-7**: At the rate she's going, she's gonna throw her back out hauling them all around...then she'll need a good massage...

**elaneon**: Welcome to the party! Yeah, I couldn't see El/George killing some little old lady like that...I do try to keep the charecters in charecter.I'll answer your lovely detailed reviews in an e-mail as soon as I get a little time. Glad you're having fun.


	22. Morbidity and Mortality

21. Morbidity and Mortality

Gomez squirms and struggles, but I'm psyched. "It's bad enough you kidnap my friends and try to fry me like a chicken. You molest children - yeah, I saw your little chiquita in the limo! And Eduardo, you can't drive worth shit. In the space of two minutes, you just totalled a Ferrari and shot up a GT350. You are a waste of life."

In the light of oncoming headlights, I slide the knife slowly between his ribs, bearing down on it by the end of the thrust and wiggling the handle. Gomez is really most sincerely dead by the time I'm through with him. It's a lot quicker than he deserves, for his sins. He shouldn't have shot the Shelby.

"We're heading back to the warehouse," RC hollers as I rise and saunter back to the GT 350. I wave to show I've heard, then launch the Shelby downhill, leaving the jeep far, far behind.

George doesn't say anything when I cruise past the turn-off to the industrial park where the warehouse is. He doesn't say anything when we motor through Culiacan, its streets deserted in the late evening hours. He doesn't say anything until I veer onto the downhill fork in the road. Then, he says, "Can you slow down? Please? There's no one chasing us, this time."

Killjoy. "What's the matter, you don't trust my driving?" But I back off on the pedal a little. God, what a great car. The spoils of victory are sweet indeed.

"Why didn't you just shoot Gomez?" he asks me suddenly.

"I don't like guns," I say, which I'm sure sounds ridiculous coming from a woman who's spent the last hour doing what I've been doing.

Sure enough, the look he give me is pure disbelief. He reaches into my bag and starts pulling out armament. "Five?" he says with incredulity. "You don't like guns, and you're toting around five of them?"

I thought it was getting a little heavy. "One of them is yours," I remind him. "That's mine - that's the only one I started out with! I borrowed one from Sands; I think that's the one I took off that guy in the courtyard. And that sissy little thing with the pearl grips was Gomez's."

"You could have shot him with that."

For some reason, he seems to be brooding about me gacking Gomez. "Yeah, I could have. And this afternoon, when his goons had me strapped to a table with a shock collar around my neck, he could've said, 'Let her go' - but he didn't, and I didn't, and did you get a look at that kid in the limo? Did you? Huh? She was just a baby! Save your righteous indignation - that bastard got what he had coming to him!"

There's a silence in the car that's broken only by squealing tires as I take one of the hairpins at speed. "Do you remember the first time you killed someone?" he asks me out of the blue.

What the hell kind of question is that? "Yeah, so?"

"Did you have a problem with it? Did it bother you?"

The Shelby slows; this conversation has my attention. "Bother me? I guess so. It wasn't supposed to happen the way it did." I sigh. "I was supposed to be getting back some sensitive information for the company that hired us. The guy who had it - I tried everything else, but he didn't leave it in his hotel room, or his car, and I finally had to resort to a good old-fashioned mugging. I had a knife to make it look good, and the dumbass tried to take it away from me."

Fighting for the knife, I'd hauled off and punched him in the throat. It was a trick I'd learned from an unarmed combat instructor after the Buffalo Bill incident. I'd never really expected to use it; had grabbed the courier's briefcase and his wallet while he was writhing on the ground, gasping for air. He choked to death in front of me. Not quickly, either. I'd stood there while his face turned blue. Then I'd snapped out of it, and bolted. I kept the data and his cash, wiped the rest in case of prints, and tossed the remains into a dumpster nearby. When I tell him that, he wants to know what I spent the money on. I'm baffled by the question. I don't even remember how much it was...not much, under a hundred dollars.

"Did you have bad dreams about it?"

"George, I have plenty of nightmares, okay? There are nights when all I do is try to keep people from killing me in my sleep. I'll dream that I'm at the grocery store, and the butcher wants to carve me up for the meat case. I have dreams where I'm being chased through the jungle by cannibals. Now I'm probably going to start having dreams about being shot and electrocuted, thank you very much. Is there some point to all this, or did you not believe me about me not being a nice girl?"


	23. The Devil and the Details

22. The Devil and the Details

"Do you like killing people?"

At that, I stand on the brakes. The GT350 protests violently as it wallows to a halt in the middle of the road. "No, I don't like killing people! I'm not some sick fuck who woke up one day and decided my new hobby was going to be dismemberment! If I kill somebody, it's either self-defense, or business." My voice climbs higher and higher. "I don't enjoy it, that's not how I get my kicks! Jesus Christ, there are enough of them out there! You think I don't know that?"

"Catherine -"

"One of them kidnapped me," I tell him, pitching it down into first and releasing the clutch too soon. It stalls. Impossible. I never stall out. "He kidnapped me, and he stripped me naked, and he put me in a hole in the ground and do you know why?" The Shelby bucks, but I get it into gear. "He wanted to skin me alive. How's that for twisted, huh?" I yank the gearshift viciously into second. "And after I got out, I said, no one is ever gonna do that to me again, and I learned how to take care of myself. When I have to take care of business, I take care of business. Like that asshole Gomez!" The fucking thing does not want to go into third; I double-clutch like I'm gonna stomp it to death, and it won't budge. The tachometer is roaring in neutral, but it seems like even the Shelby is passing judgement on me.

"Catherine, pull over. Please." The vehicle is slowing anyway. I wrestle it off to the side - we're down to an area that actually has a shoulder - and park it.

"What? What do you want from me?" Oh, God, not again. Twice inside of twenty-four hours? I'm losing my mind. I'm sobbing again, and it has nothing to do with Gomez, who I don't feel the least bit guilty about, but I would've shot that old woman if George hadn't gotten between us. Somebody's grandmother, for crying out loud, and that's exactly what I'm doing, my face buried against his jacket and me bawling like a baby.

"Catherine, Catherine," he soothes, cradling me in his arms, consoling me.

"Why are you asking me all those questions?" I ask, despairing. He tips my chin up with strong fingers, and his eyes glitter in the faint glow from the dash.

"I want to make sure you won't be the death of me," he murmurs, and touches his lips gently to mine.

A profound stillness washes over me. I roll down my window and grab one of the guns from the bag, flinging it out into the darkness. George takes my hand as I reach for another one, shaking his head, making little shusshing noises. The bag slides down onto the floorboards as he leans over and kisses me again. Once more, with feeling - except my sinuses are clogged from crying, and the bucket seats make it awkward. The alertness of the hunt has subsided, and I'm hurting. Then my stomach growls, loudly, reminding me that I haven't had any solid food since this time last night.

Sitting up, I pull my hand free and wipe my tears away, sniffling. "Are you okay? Do you want me to drive?" he asks anxiously.

"You're just scared of my driving," I say with as much dignity as I can sum up. "I'm okay. I'm sorry if I freaked you out."

Next time, I want to say to him, I'll just shoot the bad guy, or would you rather I let you do it? What was I supposed to do? Hell, half the time, I don't even understand your questions. What did I spend the guy's money on? How am I supposed to remember a thing like that? Tips at the hotel I was staying at, I think. Wasn't that the time I spilled most of a bottle of red wine in bed? Yeah, that was it. Shaking and reliving the courier's death and trying to drink myself to sleep, and a hefty bonus for the poor maid who had to come in behind me and clean it up. Yeah, George, it bothered me.

The clutch is cooperating now. I get the Shelby rolling toward El Dorado, as smoothly as if it hadn't decided to fuck with me. We wind up back in the same dive we were in last night, but this time, my cell phone is off. I've made certain of that. I'm not driving anywhere until I've had food and sleep.

"Okay, El Mariachi. It's your turn to play true confessions. What's the deal with the guitar case?"

Haltingly, he tells his story: how the woman he loved was gunned down before his eyes...he got revenge on her killers, and a second chance at love with another woman, Caroline, only to see her - and their daughter - murdered by the man Sands later recruited him to kill.

"Why did you come back?" I ask him. "It doesn't sound like there's any love lost between you and Sands."

"I was planning to kill him," George admits. "He is an evil man. But after what Barillo did to him -"

"You didn't have the heart?"

"Don't misunderstand...I think Sands is a very bad man. He thinks nothing of using people like pawns. But..." He hesitates. "Before, he was very arrogant, very proud of himself. Now...it's no longer about the money or the power. It's a crusade for him. He is still a bad man, but now he is fighting for something good."

"I only met him a few months ago, but my boss has known him for years. RC calls him Lucifer."

"El diablo...it suits him."

Eventually, we're well-fed, emerging from the restaurant and without discussing it, we walk over to the hotel across the street. This isn't the same place we were in the night before last. No, this is a hole-in-the-wall that probably rents by the hour if that's all you need. Somewhere between the empanadas and the chiles rellenos, the sexual tension started to resurface between us, and this time, there shouldn't be any interruptions.

The elevator ride takes an hour. The twenty feet of hallway between the elevator and our room is a marathon. Then the door closes behind us, and we're stripping each other down to sweet bare flesh. He lays me down on the bed, his hands and his lips rousing me to a squealing, shuddering mass of pleasure, and I'm gone, gone, gone...

* * *

Kerttu: A functioning conscience is a terribly liability for someone in his line of work. You're right; Caroline was more...demure is the word that comes to mind, and it's not a word that'll be applied to Kate very often. It doesn't come naturally. 

Dawnie-7: It's not so much that she killed Gomez; it was the "hold him down and put a knife through him" instead of a quick bullet between the eyes. That might be Sands's style, but not El's.

Mojave Dragonfly: That was ambiguous...Kate isn't what, nice, or a killer?

elaneon: The money question...bear in mind that it's coming from a guy who turned out the pockets of a group of dead gunmen after a shootoutand put the money in the church poor box. Elegant? Well, I try. And the title "Twilight Reflections" is kind of bland - that story doesn't get a great deal of traffic - but it's layered with meaning.


	24. La Cucharacha

23. La Cucaracha

A light tickling on my right calf awakens me. I'm aware of George's strong frame beside me, and smile. Then I realize that I know exactly where both of George's hands are. So what's tickling me? Craning my neck, I see something dark brown, two inches long, with another three inches of antennae waving at me as it strolls along my leg.

George bolts upright at my scream, a gun in his fist before his eyes are even open.

"Get it off me, get it off me!" I holler, slapping at the horrible thing which jumps off my leg and flies right at my face. I shriek and duck. George stares at me. Looks over at the multi-legged monstrosity that's landed on the wall beside the window, then back at me. "What the hell is that thing?"

His lips twitch. "La cucaracha."

"My ass, that's a cockroach! I've seen cockroaches, George. They're about yea big," I hold up my fingers to show him what I think of as an average cockroach. "I've seen chihuahuas smaller than that thing!"

Someone's pounding on the wall behind us, yelling that it's cinco in the morning. The alleged cockroach is moving, and I'm afraid it's going to attack again."For god's sake, kill it!"

George shrugs, sights on the cucaracha, and blows a hole in the plaster you could stick your fist into. The guy in the room next door gets magically quiet. "Better?"

"Thank you." Right about then, it dawns on me that we're both stark naked, and the last thing I remember was that moment of bliss. "Um, did we?"

"You fell asleep," he says dryly. I'm completely humiliated. He chuckles, his arm going around my waist. "It's all right. You had a rough day."

"First, I really need to, um..."

"It's the door to the left of the stairs," he says, understanding what I'm suddenly too self-conscious to say.

Grabbing the blanket off the bed, I wrap it around myself-I'm not putting those nasty, funky clothes back on any sooner than I absolutely have to - and snag the nearest pistol out of my bag in case there are cockroaches in the bathroom, too. With the late Señor Gomez's pop gun clutched in my hand, I depart for the facilities. I return much relieved and acceptably clean.

The little pearl-handled pistol goes on the nightstand, I drop the blanket, and stand there giving George an eyeful. He's enjoying the view -I can tell. We spend a moment admiring each other, then I get onto the bed and snuggle down beside him.

Here I am, lying in the arms of a man who's name I don't even know, feeling dangerously content. Feeling happy. I'm used to thinking, not feeling. Feelings are dangerous, frightening. He murmurs something in the language he thinks I don't understand. "You are going to be the death of me." His lips brush against my neck. "Catherine." Mahogany hair is soft against my cheek. There's a border of stubble along his jaw, rough against my throat. His sinewy hands explore my breasts.

Stretching like a cat, I let my fingertips wander through the thick mat of wiry hair that graces his lean body. I want to think it's because he's so damn sexy, but I'm not fooling myself. I can't blame it all on hormones. The man who's tenderly kissing my wounded arm has breached my defenses. My heart is his hostage.

Tenderness, passion, pleasure: what can I say? Yin, yang. Male, female. Hard, soft. Give, take. Need, satisfaction. All those tired old clichés are true...I had no idea. Prior to my abduction, I'd had two sexual partners, just enough experience to figure out how things fit together. After Buffalo Bill, sex was limited to a series of impersonal transactions designed to get specific results, as much a part of business as bugging someone's phone. This is different. This is _real_. I don't have words for it, but it's right, somehow. Scary - terrifying - but essential, nourishing something I've denied for a very long time.

As we're holding each other in the afterglow, I start to giggle. He looks down at me, bemused, a question in his marvelous amber eyes.

"You know, it's funny," I say in my best Spanish, "For a man who sleeps with a loaded gun under his pillow to think _I'm _going to be the death of him."

* * *

**kerttu:** It's a technique that's often used in interrogations: cruelty for an extended period, followed by kindness. The subject is frequently so grateful that the small mercy is what breaks them. Kate's been under a lot of stress lately, in addition to the stress she puts herself through by being so hard-shelled. I don't see her as someone who spends a lot of time analyzing her feelings, so right now, she's really confused. 

**mssparrington:** I find that El is fairly easy to write; I approach him with a combination of chivalry and ruthless justice, depending on the circumstances. The movies give enough examples of his peculiar conscience; it's a question of, "If he did this when that happened, what would he do here?" The romantic angle is a bit trickier, since Kate is a much different animal than Caroline, plus he's had to deal with a lot of grief since then. My take is that killing Marquez gave him closure about Caroline's death, and he's been alone long enough to be attracted to a fearless, energetic woman with a certain amount of Southern charm.

**Dawnie-7:** Kate and El both have ghosts in their past; in her case, Buffalo Bill is always going to haunt her to some extent, while El has seen two women that he loved (and his daughter) gunned down before his eyes, so he's got to be asking himself whether he has the right to endanger someone else. (Even if that someone does a pretty good job of taking care of herself.) There's a lot going on in his head, but he's not the type to talk about his feelings, so that comment is about as close as he's liable to get. He's more likely to show it in how he treats her, especially now that he's seen that she isn't tough all the way through.


	25. Bugged

24. Bugged

We're having breakfast at the dive across the street from the Cucaracha Hilton, when my purse has a fit. Actually, this is the second or third fit it's had this morning, but I was only peripherally aware of the other ones, having better things to do than answer the phone. This time, though, my bag is squirming on the table and something rattles against multiple guns.

"That's some cockroach," says George, deadpan.

"I only wish," I sigh, fishing through the weaponry. "That's my phone set to vibrate...Yeah, yeah, I'm here," I grumble into it.

"You need to get back," says RC without preamble. "It looks like the PSCS got shorted out while Sands was pulling your ass off that table last night."

Italian sign language obviously translates into Spanish; my partner snickers across the table from me. "As soon as I'm through with breakfast," I say calmly.

"The sooner the better."

"Listen, I've had a total of two meals in three days. I'm finishing my fucking breakfast, then we'll hit the road." And I hang up. Have I grown a pair, or what?

"You do like to live dangerously," George remarks. "Is it always like that? Last night -"

I'd forgotten about my challenge to RC after everything else that went on...I'm liable to wind up having my head handed to me on a plate. "No, this is the first time we've been out on a job together. Usually I'm in the workshop doing tech stuff, or I get an assignment and I'm free to carry it out as I see fit. I'm used to being in charge when I'm in the field, not taking orders and playing second banana."

"You're very capable," says George. "I was not worried with you at my back."

There's a lump in my throat. I think this is the highest compliment I've ever been paid. "Last night...was like dancing. When you're in step together..." I stop, blushing at such a girly metaphor.

"I would like to dance with you, someday," he answers with a smile, and we look at one another, wordless, until our huevos are muy frio and we send them back to the kitchen. Let RC and Sands wait. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

I'm torn between making the time alone with him last and wanting to let the Shelby off the chain in broad daylight. I compromise, driving sanely through the twistier bits and cutting loose where the visibility is good. Have I mentioned what a fantastic car this is? The clutch is a monster and it takes some torque to shift - that bitch is not gonna pop out of gear by accident. The racing suspension is taut, but the steering is amazingly responsive. There's ample room to stash it in the bay; no way in hell am I going to abandon it. That reminds me, we ought to fetch the Batmobile...I drop George off at the Studie with the keys and continue on to the warehouse.

"Horseshit!" RC is roaring into a cell phone as I enter the workroom. "You lazy bastard, I want your ass down here pronto Tonto! What? Since when?" Oh, boy. What a day I picked to have a hissy. I quietly go about getting the primary unit from Sands. Diagnostics show a loose connection, easily fixed, but something else is wrong: I'm getting more signals than I thought I put in the damn thing. Screwy. When RC hangs up the phone, my guts clench up. Now I'm in for it.

"It seems our friend Lee is placing fear of FAA regulations above fear of yours truly. He says he needs downtime before he can come get us. Looks like we're stuck here until tomorrow." I nod to show I've heard, studiously not looking up from the chip I'm testing. At the sound of the outside door rolling up, my employer exits to the bay, and I relax. Yesterday's fun and games with electroshock has taken its toll. I'm sore all over and still tired, despite a solid six hours of sleep last night.

"Did you really tell RC to fuck off?" Sands asks me gleefully once the door closes. "That's ballsy. Shows a real death wish, but it's ballsy."

"Thanks, Sands, but I hate to disappoint you. All I said was, 'I'm going to finish my fucking breakfast'."

"Hey, that still takes guts. And last night, damn! 'Unless you want a piece?' That was insane!" He chuckles softly. "I wouldn't want to be you."

Yeah, he would, or he wouldn't be so pleased about it. He's hoping for carnage. My purse is on the work-table. Finding the locator, I turn it on to watch him react. Which would be fun, if he was wearing the PSCS at the moment. Duh, I'm more tired than I realized. I pick up the primary unit and put it on. The noise that jumps out at me is overwhelming, worse than I remember. First, I turn off the detector. That cuts significant feedback - it really does sound like nails on a chalkboard - but I remember assembling the unit, and it did _not _sound like this. Note to self, don't use detector unless it's necessary, I wouldn't blame Sands for shooting me with that shrieking in his ears.

"Do you still have those gloves?" I ask him. Discovering that I'm getting a signal from the gloves and eliminating that reduces more of it - how the hell does Sands cope with all this sound? Somehow, he's processing all this junk and using it to navigate. That's what it was created for, but _not _on this many channels.

The door to the bay opens again, and George strolls in and lays my keys on the worktable as I check the gloves again. Suddenly, the feedback sharpens into two different ringing tones, in addition to the thrum of his approach. What the hell is causing that? I'm positive it's not the damned gloves. At first I think it's some weird ghost from the locator, but taking out the battery and disabling it has no effect. Something dawns on me. A minute later, the PSCS goes crazy.

Holding my Mexican souvenir/Christmas present, I realize how Sands has been I.D.'ing me blind. I've been bugged.

* * *

**Mojave Dragonfly**: You know that, and I know that, but Kate still has her head in the sand and doesn't know what to think. 

**Dawnie-7**: And if you've ever seen a South American flying cockroach, you'll know Kate wasn't exaggerating...much. They've happily emigrated here to Florida, and no lie, their bodies are nearly two inches long and their antennae are as long or longer...and yes, they WILL fly at you.

Kudos to **elaneon**, who already figured out the business with the keychain. Lojacked indeed!


	26. Going With the Flow

25. Going With the Flow

I'm getting two signals from George, one that's the unit responding to a solid object in its vicinity, the other... "Did RC give you something electronic?" I ask him. "Something to wear or carry?"

"Just this." He indicates a small silver tag clipped to his jacket. "It's supposed to help keep Sands from shooting the wrong people."

"Hey, I've never shot you yet," says Sands with mock-indignation.

"I appreciate that," says the Mexican ironically. He strolls up behind me and gently begins to massage my shoulders. I lean back against him, trying not to think about the aches and pains I've been feeling today. Jet lag, a bullet wound, electric shock and the horizonal boogie - all guaranteed to make a gal feel sore if she's a little out of shape. He's nuzzling the back of my neck, and I just want to go limp and purr. When you're as tense and tender as I am right now, a good backrub can be better than sex - although I wouldn't say no to either one, if he was the one suggesting it.

Beating my head against a wall won't do any good. Beating RC's head against a wall might. I can't believe I've been carrying the stinking thing around for six months, unaware. It explains everything. How Sands found me at the cafe and how he knew it was me in El Dorado. That's why he almost shot me Sunday morning at the house - he didn't have the PSCS on.

Taking a hammer to the ornamental key fob is tempting, but thinking about it, I think I'd rather have Sands know it was me than not know. I tuck the keys back into my pocket; I'm safer with them there than in my bag. "I think I've got it all sorted out," I say, and hand Sands the primary unit. Watching him adjusting the unit, I see his whole demeanor change. He's more relaxed - and at the same time, he stands a little taller. "I don't know how you do it," I tell him. "I nearly gave up completing the sonar project, because there's so much input to try to sort out."

"I'm really glad you didn't," he says soberly. "I'm twice as blind, without the gear."

At least he's not trying to pretend it's all his natural ability. He's honest...in his own way. "You've got sonar navigation down to an art." Obnoxious sleaze-weasel though he may be, he's got some good moves. I owe him for taking out Scarface, if nothing else. I may not like him personally, but I can work with him.

"It's not like I have a whole lot of choice, Kate. I can't just take off the unit and open my eyes. All I can do is listen to what it tells me and go with the flow."

I nod and realize again what a dumb reflex that is around him. "I think you were a vampire bat in a past life. It would explain your charming personality."

Sands grins that cocky grin of his. "Yeah, well, charm I've still got. Can't always tell when it's working, but I've still got it."

"Come on," George says to me, firmly. "You need to get some rest." He's right. I'm making inane small talk with Sands; it's time to go. I don't argue with him. I have just enough presence of mind to grab my overnight bag on the way to the door

"Where are you going?" RC asks when we walk out into the bay.

"Kate needs to rest," George says, his arm around me.

My boss gives us the hairy eyeball. "Kate?" I don't say anything. Can't say anything because if I do, I'm liable to go three for three and start crying again. RC must see something in my face. "I _suggest _you don't go to Sands's place. And _that_ thing is pretty conspicuous." Yeah, the GT350 is a whole lot of car, and the locals probably know it as one of Gomez's rides. "I _suggest _you take the jeep." It's an admirable attempt at diplomacy - otherwise known as the fine art of letting others have your way. I nod and pull out my keys. That's something else I'd like to make a stink about - the bug on my key ring - but at the moment, I just don't have the energy.

"Maybe you should let me drive," George says, and I'm far gone enough to hand over the keys without protest. He drives us to a cheap rooming house in Culiacan. It's old, but clean, and there's a bed. That's all that matters. He's brought along his guitar case, and as I stretch out, trying to still my mind enough to sleep, he releases the black guitar from its mountings and begins to play softly. He sits on the end of the bed, picking out the notes in the early afternoon light. The guitar isn't just for show: he really can play.

I recognize the tune. "What's that song? You sang it to me in El Dorado."

" 'Estados Unidos Mexicanos'. Our national anthem."

"George Washington," I say, half-asleep. Odd, him knowing about George Washington. After all, Washington was as American as cherry pie. How many famous Mexicans can your average American name? "Pancho Villa," I mumble.

"What?" He looks up from the fretboard, startled.

"Your real name isn't Pancho, is it?"

He laughs. "No."

"Uh, Santa Ana?"

"Sorry, no." He's amused.

They gave us a little Mexican history in Spanish 101, which I admit was about twenty years ago. I tax my char-broiled brain cells to come up with more names. "Juarez?"

He stills. "You know Juarez?"

What _do _I know about Juarez? He was a great leader. There's a city named after him. And...he wasn't Spanish. His heritage was through the native tribes of the region. He really was a son of Mexico. What was his full name? Not Jorge. I _know_ that isn't right. Then I remember.

He nods when I say it aloud. After a moment, he begins to play again, and I let the music carry me away to dreamland.

* * *

Yes, boys and girls, I am going to commit the heresy of giving El Mariachi a real name. Stay tuned. 


	27. Fred and Ginger

26. Fred and Ginger

The sound of a door closing quietly nearby brings me to sudden consciousness. There should be a gun under my pillow, but there's not. I tense, hoping the pretense of sleep will give me a chance to surprise the intruder when I attack. Then he begins to hum under his breath, doing something with the guitar case, and the tension leaves me. I open my eyes and look over at him. By the way the light has changed, I can tell I've slept all afternoon. It's almost sunset.

He stands in front of the window, shirtless, hair slicked back, looking yummy. I smile. For the first time in the last few days, I actually feel rested. My arm is itching; the bullet wound seems to be healing. I'm a bit sore from yesterday's antics, but a couple caplets ought to take care of that.

He catches me watching him. Walks over and kisses me. He's scraped the stubble off...I've noticed he's fussy about shaving. He's not in the jeans he's had on for the past few days - now he's encased in black pants, nicely tailored, with silver chains laddered down the side seams, jingling lightly. "If you want to freshen up a bit, Catherine," he proposes, "we can go get some dinner...and afterward, dancing?"

"Wonderful. I take my overnight bag down the hall with me, glad I remembered to snag it on the way out of the warehouse. I have a simple navy blue dress with a flared skirt - dress it up, dress it down - it goes anywhere. And has - I've worn it to embassy dinners, suburban cocktail parties, even funerals. Tonite it's going to go dancing. Wanting to at least look like a nice girl, I rummage for cosmetics and fuss more than usual with my hair. When did I turn into such a girly-girl, anyway? The expression on my escort's face shows the effort was worthwhile. He extends his arm; I take it, and we depart for an evening of light-hearted fun.

Contrary to what Sands may think, El Tarantula Azul is not the only restaurant in town. A few blocks from our rooming house is Roberto's, the kind of place my mother would've described as a supper club. It combines food, music and dancing, and it's neither too rowdy nor too upscale. There are candles on the tables, an orchestra is tuneful in the background...in short, it's perfect. The food is quite good. Wow, two whole meals today. Amazing.

"So, tell me," I say over dinner. "What was she like, Caroline?" Okay, so I'm prying, but I'm awfully curious about her.

"What do you want to know?"

What do I have to do to live up to her? Not that I can ask him that. It would sound pathetically insecure. "Was she a nice girl?"

"She was very..." He searches for a word, or its translation. "Demure. Ladylike. Feminine." He smiles at some memory. "You'd never guess to look at her how ruthless she could be. She liked knives, too. I've seen her put a knife into a man's eye from twenty feet away," A little throwing gesture illustrates his words, "and a little while later, she could polish off a bowl of flan like a kitten going after cream. I thought of that last night, while you were having dinner."

"I was hungry!" I defend myself. "All I had yesterday was that lousy cup of coffee. So you don't think I'm a horrible person for killing Gomez?"

"Of course I don't think that," he answers. "I still don't understand why you did it the way you did..."

"Look, Gomez stood there and let those creeps torture me. He wanted to get me hooked and turn me into a sexual plaything. I happen to take stuff like that personally, so I thought I ought to take him out personally." Demure, ladylike, feminine? That lets me out, then. I jettisoned all that stuff years ago, and I don't think I can get it back.

"Si, when you explain it that way, I understand. But please, Catherine, whatever you do - just don't start talking about maintaining the balance. It sounds too much like Sands."

My lips twitch. I try to picture him and Sands and the gigantic cucharacha...that's just wrong. "I have mixed feelings about Sands."

"Oh?" Is that a note of jealously I hear in his voice? Maybe? We've gotten off the subject of Caroline, but that's just as well. The less he compares us, the better off I'll be. "You have feelings for Sands?"

"I have a certain amount of respect for Sands. It's like you said, he's not a good person, but he's fighting for the right thing. He's not having a pity-party about being blind, he's doing something - even if it is crazy, it's something. He's smart and he can take care of himself in a fight. Those are the good things about him. Then again, if he can find a nerve to get on, he's on it. Not that I'm exactly Miss Charm School, I admit."

"Ah, but I wouldn't want to take him dancing," he says smoothly. "Shall we?"

Oh, yes...I learned to dance, sometime between Spanish 101 and Intro to Keggers, for the debut my mother insisted on putting me through. It's been forever since I danced this way, held by my partner, the pattern of the steps flowing in preordained rhythm. Unlike those boys of long-ago, he knows how to move, moves confidently, and we glide gracefully across the dance floor.

Although I haven't danced formally in years, I don't have to think about the steps. I'm aware of what he's going to do through some kind of physical telepathy, and I echo it. Dancing together is just that: we're pressed closely against one another, responding to the music, to each other. It's a mating ritual, sex in public, upright and fully dressed. It seems so natural that it's hard to remember that we've never done this before, never rehearsed...

Or have we?

Not in the sense of having an orchestral accompaniment...but we've verbally flirted a tango since we met, danced with ease a far more deadly dance through a darkened hacienda with only gunfire for music, come together as one at cinco in the morning... It's like each successful dance has led to another, as we've gotten better acquainted. We make a great couple, all of us: Kate and George, Fred and Ginger, Catherine and Benito.

* * *

A/N: 

Yes, Benito. (Like Benito Juarez, see the previous chapter, "Going With the Flow".) In "Desperado", his older brother hails him as "Manito". Now, you'd think a brother would know, right? Someone posted a comment elsewhere (Sorry, I don't recall who or for what story) that "Manito" isn't a real name. In fact, "-ito" as a suffix is the Spanish-language equivalent of John becoming Johnny...in this case, it's _probably_ a nickname for Manuel. According to what I've read, Benito was the first name of Juarez; I didn't find anything stating a more formal name, like Benjamin. I liked the son of Mexico analogy. So, I'm taking the liberty of stating that El's given name is something along the lines of Benito Manuel Mariachi, and "Manito" was his childhood nickname. (I know "Mariachi" isn't a surname, but there **is **a limit to how far I'm willing to stretch canon.) If Mr. Robert Rodriguez wants to discuss the liberties I've taken with his charecter, I'm all ears. Otherwise, hey, y'all - it's only fan-fic!

Oh, and about "El" shaving? In "Desperado", he's seen using a straight razor. I figure he keeps that stashed in his boot...for close shaves of one variety or another.


	28. Surviving on an Island Without Cockroach...

27. Surviving on an Island Without Cockroaches

The first hour of the flight home passes in tense silence. When we got to the warehouse in the morning, we found Sands in a futile argument with RC about staying longer. Lee arrived within the next forty minutes, and then I was saying adios, unwillingly, and climbing aboard the plane. El/George/Benito had a stony expression on his face as I stepped out of his final embrace, and the light in his amber eyes was gone.

Sitting quietly in the cabin, I'm thinking, feeling, planning...this isn't right. I try to imagine what's going on in the wake of our departure. Is Sands asking for help from his remaining stalwart? Are they going to make a stand, or is that dusty black jacket even now striding away from Culiacan?

"So, you think you can take me?" RC asks suddenly. Oh good grief, we're back to that? Of all the irrelevant bullshit!

I raise my right hand and take aim with the pop gun. I was ready for this. "Yes. Although I was hoping I wouldn't have to."

"Fine. Then suppose you put that down so we can talk."

"Why? A gun this small, the bullet shouldn't go through you and depressurize the cabin."

Lee squeaks. We ignore him staring at each other, waiting for the other to blink.

"Glad you're paying attention to detail, Kate. I suppose I deserve your recent hostility, after sending you out to get captured like a pawn." Perfectly calm, looking over at me like I'm holding nothing more lethal than a real pea-shooter. "Sometimes, dear girl, it's so simple to push your buttons. Especially with matters automotive. I trust you learned something from the experience?"

One thing I've learned from this week: lots of interesting new Spanish words that I suspect no nice Mexican girl would know. I let several of them fly now. Doing something dumb and getting myself captured-that was bad enough-knowing that I was set up to do it, knowing that I could be so stupidly predictable-that infuriates me.

"You did a good job."

"But...?" I spit.

"No buts. You did a good job. You didn't fall apart, even when they tortured you. You got up and kicked ass. We took that operation apart, and you personally made certain that we wouldn't have any more trouble with the man in charge."

How can anyone be so oblivious to oncoming disaster? "Yeah, well, I may have done more harm than good. Sands says Gomez's father has a big operation down in Guadalajara. He's bound to want to know what happened to Junior." More cartelistas will descend on Culiacan; who's going to drive getaway?

"That's not our problem. Relax, Kate. Take tomorrow off, get some rest."

"Sands says fighting cartels is like mowing the lawn - doing it once doesn't mean you're done with it."

"I have allergies. That's one of the reasons I live in a condo. I'm smart enough not to let myself in for all that upkeep. Sands doesn't have to fight cartels." RC shrugs. "Hell, I'd give him a job. He wants to be macho and get revenge, fine. I've done as much as I'm going to do. Come in Friday morning and we'll talk some more."

Stashing the little gun back in my bag - it's not exactly working for intimidation anyway - I lean back in my seat, my thoughts more chaotic than ever._ I should never have gotten on the damn plane_, I think. There may be a few days grace, depending on how tight the Gomez operation is, but then, count on it, all hell is gonna break loose.

It's almost sundown when we land. I head out to where the Chrysler is parked, and when I climb in, stare blankly at the steer horns in the back seat. Last Saturday seems like it happened years ago. I remember buying them, patting myself on the back for finding a clever gift for Kevin, but now they've taken on a surreal quality. My shiny car seems too new, somehow. It's not the Batmobile, it's not the GT350 - even with all the non-stock extras, the mystique just isn't there.

Several hours of near-silence aboard the small plane have given me time to think. Instead of going directly home, I make a few detours. Kevin, my financial advisor, is surprised to get his Christmas present in June - above and beyond the shock value of the present itself. He's from Texas and proud of it; for years, we've had a running joke that he really ought to have a set of longhorns for his car. The fact that his car is a purely generic Lexus is beside the point.

A doctor of my acquaintance is home, and I pay him a visit next. My story about an accident in the wilderness during a camping trip is received with a short nod. I don't really expect him to believe the tale; as long as he doesn't report it, we're fine. He says my arm is healing nicely, although he's incredulous about the use of waxed dental floss for sutures. Thinking of getting those stitches, I smile ruefully. _Many, many people go their whole lives without ever being shot,_ says a husky voice in my head.

I pick up Chinese takeout on the way home. I'm tired of restaurants, but too tired to cook. _I'm going to shoot him like a cook..._

The townhouse is mine. Like the Chrysler, it feels alien now. All my expensive, tasteful furnishings and electronic toys seem like relics from someone else's life. I throw my dirty clothes in the washer and take a long, hot shower in a bathroom I don't have to share with strangers. This is the first time I've been alone for more than a few minutes in days. I ought to welcome it, but at the moment, even Sands calling me obnoxious endearments is preferable to the hollow silence. This is my life, and a week ago, I was fine with it. Suddenly, it's intolerable.

On TV, a bunch of whiny yuppies are trying to survive on an island without organic produce or Starbucks. Oh, the horror. I turn it off impatiently. The radio isn't any better. Someone wanting to sell me a car segues into a shredding guitar riff. _A faded bedspread and golden light, soft notes plucked lovingly..._

It's a very long night. I'm in my own clean and comfortable bed with fresh linens and the climate controlled to a perfect 80 degrees - and I can't sleep. I wasn't this jumpy prowling through the hacienda with people shooting at me, but here, there's no one watching my back._ I was not worried with you at my back._

At least there are no cucarachas.


	29. Uncharted

28. Uncharted

When RC arrives at the office on Friday morning, all my gear is already packed into the Chrysler. I spent Thursday tying up loose ends: I've lined up a friend to keep the townhouse occupied, arranged mail forwarding, utility payments and the like. JC Whitney Automotive is going to be delivering a bunch of stuff to Culiacan in a few days. I'm going to have to have a serious talk with Sands about custody of the Batmobile. Sorted through my possessions and winnowed the keepers from the dross. Last night, I slept like the proverbial baby.

"So, it's like that, is it?" says my employer, surveying the workroom, now minus my tools and stockpiles of materiel. "Kate, don't do this."

I shake my head. "You bugged me, you set me up, you could've gotten me killed, and for what? So I can kill people I don't give a damn about for money I don't need?"

"Look, I understand. There's only so long anybody can carry out that kind of assignment. I understand perfectly, why do you think I rarely go into the field myself anymore? What if I made you a full partner?" says RC persuasively. "No more field work. Pure R and D, you're good at that."

"No, it's not that. You _don't _understand, RC."

"It's never been about the money for you, I know that. But you _are _good at electronics."

"I'll come in to consult once in a while if you really need me, but I can't stay here. You may be able to wash your hands of the problem and go about your business, but I can't. Not if I want to be look myself in the eye."

"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic, Kate? This is our business, this, right here, in this room - not trying to save the world by throwing ourselves under the wheels. Cartels are like mowing the lawn? Bullshit. They're more like trying to fight crabgrass. The crabgrass always comes back, and I have better things to do with my time."

This place is more like home than the townhouse; I've spent so much time here...it's seductively easy to imagine putting everything back into its place and sitting down to tinker with some new project. I think of last night, the townhouse as lifeless as a crypt. No, I'd eat a bullet inside of a week. "I can't let it go, I just can't."

My boss sighs. "It's him, isn't it? That Mexican? I knew it was going to happen sooner or later."

"What are you talking about? Knew what would happen?"

"I knew sooner or later your cold, cold heart would thaw out. When I first sent you down there, I was kind of hoping you and Sands would hook up."

My jaw drops. "Sands? Are you loco? After that story about the mime - or was that more of your reverse psychology?"

RC shrugs. "Wishful thinking, maybe. Birds of a feather flocking together and all that. You're a lot alike."

That floors me. Me, compared to Sands? That's _so_ insulting. Sands is an asshole._ Yes, and you're a dyed-in-the-wool bitch, Kate, and you know it. You're not demure, you're not a girly-girl - even if you can dance like Ginger Rogers...with the right partner._ "We tolerate each other. Barely."

"And you're in love with El."

The word sends a flood of panic through me. If there was a gun in my hand, my ex-boss would be my late boss. Putting a name to all these scary, complicated feelings is what I've carefully avoided doing. Love? No way. I've never used that word to describe any of my relationships, except maybe warm fuzzies as my mom's daughter. No, love is a messy business that I want no part of, except casually: Love your shoes. I loved that movie. I'd really love to get together for lunch sometime. But as a _verb_? A _feeling_? God help me.

"I don't know what I am," I parry, "but I'll never find out if I stay here."

"Kate, I've got news for you - you're the only one who hasn't figured it out yet. Hell, Sands is blind as a bat, and he commented on it."

"I'll bet he did!" I retort angrily. "He's been making snide cracks about the two of us all week."

"He says when you're together, he only hears one set of footsteps. I noticed it myself, that night at the hacienda. You two went out of that interrogation room side-by-side, walking in step like a couple gunfighters in a Sergio Leone western. You're partners, whether you realize it or not."

Partners is a word I can deal with. Like Fred and Ginger. Like us: dancing to the accompaniment of an orchestra, dancing to the staccato of gunfire, together in so many ways, on so many levels. Partners trust each other. Partners share the good, the bad and the ugly. Culiacan is going to get ugly when the rest of the Gomez outfit comes to town. My _partner_ is gonna need someone to watch his back.

"So what are you going to do?" my former employer wants to know. "Go play house with your mariachi? That'll get old fast. _Then _what are you going to do?"

Playing house? That sounds like fun. And then? Taking a deep breath that fills me with peace, I grin. "Help Sands mow the lawn."

There's no improving on that as an exit line, so I pick up my purse and saunter out the door, through the lobby, to the parking lot, where the Chrysler awaits. It's loaded with everything I want to take into my new life. I crank the engine and maneuver out to the road.

I've downloaded all the maps I need to get to Mexico, but in another sense, I'm going where no map or GPS can help. It's going to be the ultimate navigation experiment.

finito-

* * *

Many thanks to my loyal reviewers, especially **Dawnie-7**, big thanks to **Mojave Dragonfly** for beta-ing when I remembered to send her chapters. (And I still have to go back and fix punctuation errors in several of the early chapters because The Site was being spastic, thanks for nothing.) I have some thoughts on what's going to happen with the Gomez cartel, but need to spend some time refining them, and catching up on a few other projects. (This was pretty intense!) So, yes, there will probably be a follow-up, but not immediately. 

Those of you who commented on what a strong woman Kate is might like to read "Secrets and Mysteries: The Glory and Pleasure of Being a Woman" by Denise Linn - non-fiction, an excellant book about exploring your spirituality and asserting your independence. (If you can't find it in the "Self-Help" section of your bookstore, try "New Age".) Guys...um, never mind, just go pick up "Sports Illustrated".

Hope your February was great, have a nice March!


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